Lionheart
by Rainsaber
Summary: Athos has a problem with those who choose to play the hero. Especially when it's his own life that's at stake. Prequel to True Faith. Non-slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Lionheart**

**Summary:** Athos has a problem with those who choose to play the hero. Especially when it's his own life that's at stake. Prequel to 'True Faith.' Non-slash.

**A/N:** This is the prequel to 'True Faith' and the specific incident that I've referred to a few times in that story surrounding The Siege of La Rochelle and our boys' involvement with it. As stated in my profile do NOT feel obligated to leave a review for this repost. Just read and enjoy.

**Warnings:** This fic is rated M for blood, violence, character angst, a near-death experience, etc. The life and sacrifices of any soldier isn't pretty and deserves recognition and respect, which was part of the reason why I wanted to write this. So often we gloss over the hardships and trauma our men and women have to go through just to serve our own countries. So please just be mindful when reading. There may be surprises along the way that might be shocking and trigger inducing for some people so just remember what the story is about. My aim is only to tell a good story, and a truthful one.

**Disclaimer:** The Three Musketeers and its characters rightfully belong to Alexandre Dumas. I'm just a serial borrower.

* * *

**Chapter One – Shields of Old**

Daybreak was not long in coming, but on this day the sun would not rise. Not for any of them. Clouds blocked what would have normally been a heavenly view. If D'Artagnan closed his eyes he could still see the light of dawn coming through the trees like rays of hope breaking through their month's long gloom of toil. If he concentrated harder he could just make out the first sparklings of light on the frigid saltwater of the ocean and the little waves no taller than his calves lapping at the icy shores. Days ago a gentle wind came as more of a caress than what was now a howling gust of yet another coming snowstorm.

The little comforts of then made their loss now seem like a wanting dream.

D'Artagnan opened his eyes in the fading darkness and shivered, pulling Athos' cloak tighter around his small body. Preserving warmth was an endless battle for every soldier. Nothing new. Nothing to complain about. Nothing he should mind, and nothing he had planned on anyway. Not doing so didn't change the fact that in this wind, in the dead of winter, comrades were dying quicker from exposure and sickness than by a sword. It all seemed so bitter, no matter how he tried to look at it. So there wasn't any use in it. The winters had never been this bad back home, he thought, as he desperately tried to keep the numbness in his feet from spreading.

Even to his fellow comrades on guard duty with him he kept silent and pretended the cold didn't bother him in the slightest. If he had his choice, and if anyone on duty with him at this hour had their choice, all would have chosen this to the alternative. It was true that the harsh winter gave them respite from the fighting, but D'Artagnan couldn't help but consider at what cost. Were they to have this one mercy so they could die from the cold instead? From hunger? From sickness and disuse? It was laughable because both sides in this conflict had the same strategy. Wait the other out. And the funny part about it was that it was working on both ends.

Sometimes the Protestants would get lucky when a shipment from England would sneak in past the wall they had built to keep the city isolated. They had wanted to draw the men out, force them into surrendering and facing the consequences of their actions like real men. But nature was in the favor of their enemies, turning the Cardinal's mortar and stone fortress to crumbling bits. And even when the water was too frozen to move the ships, somehow their adversaries still found a way through their defenses. Since those few humiliations for the king's army, things had grown more desperate for all. With the sea better barricaded now by a proper naval blockade and the roads deemed impassable due to snowdrifts, it was only a matter of time before one side would have to yield.

D'Artagnan just hoped it wasn't them. Sure the conditions were horrible, but to him defeat burned much worse than any degree of frostbite or physical discomfort ever could. His friends might have disagreed with him, being that their furloughs were long overdue because of the snow, but part of him didn't want to care. This wasn't his first real assignment outside of Paris, but it was his first actual tour of duty.

With an army.

Acting as a larger unit.

Being a real soldier.

It was invigorating, terrifying, and miserable work. It was nothing like how his father had painted things for him when he was a child, but through all the trouble there was a bigger part of him that still loved it-even if the rest of his body raged against his heart's wants. D'Artagnan pulled the hood of the cloak tighter around his face to ward off the stinging chill. Maybe that was half the battle, he thought to himself, surpassing physical needs and wants for the sake of others. Well…it wasn't as if that was anything new to him. But that wasn't what made D'Artagnan uncomfortable. It wasn't the cold, nor the slight pangs of hunger, and it wasn't even the smell from being so closely quartered with the other men. It was something much closer to home.

He turned to give a quick glance at the camp below him. From the wall of the refurbished old roman fort they were using as accommodations he could see a few men milling about, trying to wake up before Treville came around to drag the stragglers out himself for morning drills. It wouldn't be long now, and it wasn't a surprise to see so few awake. It was a Sunday after all. Sometimes the captain was lenient, sometimes he wasn't. Judging from the weather they might be permitted a lie in, but D'Artagnan wasn't about to hold his breath for it.

He spotted Porthos below and did a double take. Porthos? Up before the sun? Something just didn't seem right about that. But then again they had been running low on firewood. Maybe the cold kept him up. It certainly wouldn't have been the first time, and judging from the miserable look on his face D'Artagnan was probably right in his assumption. He couldn't blame the man one bit, but that didn't mean he couldn't have some fun in teasing him about his early rise later on.

D'Artagnan's smile faltered and he tore his eyes away to focus on his task. Some mornings he still woke up in disbelief that this was the life he was living, a mere few months after leaving home. Was it fate that he met his friends that day? He liked to believe so. But if that were the case then why did he feel so…lost, still? Or maybe not lost, but…misplaced? Home was still Gascony. Home was still with his parents. This wasn't home. Paris didn't feel like home. And his friends…

D'Artagnan hadn't known Athos, Porthos, and Aramis too long, but he was a little embarrassed to admit that he didn't want anyone else by his side in this, or in anything else-dare he even admit it aloud. It went beyond logic, because the logical part of his mind was telling him that a few months time was barely enough to form such opinions and attachments. And here he had considered them more important than nearly anyone he'd met in his entire life after the first few weeks! If it seemed a bit absurd to him, then to them it would seem so much more. D'Artagnan wasn't sure why, but that conclusion made the air biting at his face all the more wretched. He shook his head and blew into his aching hands to warm them.

Aramis was patient with him, taught him things in passing, and noticed the smallest of indications in such a quick, silent, and calculating manner that it made D'Artagnan envious of that kind of skill. Porthos was never one for melancholy, anger yes, but his hunger for life and its pleasures was so infectious that he often grounded D'Artagnan when he hadn't even meant to. And Athos…D'Artagnan just wished there was something he could do to make the man understand how much he respected and looked up to him. Athos hadn't made things easy on him, that was certain, but D'Artagnan was anything but stubborn, especially when he saw something in the man that reminded him so much of his father that it plagued him in his dreams.

He wasn't homesick.

He wasn't.

Well…perhaps just a little.

But to admit that meant admitting that he didn't want to be here. And he did…didn't he? Yes. He wanted to be here, even if it was just to shadow these men and learn what little he could on his own. He wanted someone like his father beside him now, when he was on the brink of venturing into that dark abyss of reality, when nothing but dead men and their faces would fill his dreams at night, when waking would at times mean a split-second between life or death. D'Artagnan was not enough of a fool to believe that he could deal with these things on his own. Observing Athos, Porthos, and Aramis taught him that, if anything, they depended on each other in ways that went beyond simple friendship.

Was he wrong to want that kind of comfort and support too?

Did that mean admitting his own weaknesses and immaturity?

Did it mean he just wasn't ready for this kind of life?

Every single fiber of his being screamed no, but there was a very small part of him inside that whispered yes.

D'Artagnan glanced back to catch a glimpse of Porthos again, but found him gone. The Three Inseparables. Men that were his friends. Men he was only starting to know and wanted to know infinitely more about. It seemed impossible, yet here he stood in their company, and after everything so far he wasn't disappointed in the least. Dare he consider them more? He wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to…and maybe, even consider himself more too. One of them perhaps.

But the familiarity of that very thing he craved looked to be long in coming. True friendship was something you built over a matter of years and hardship. Both were something he didn't have yet with these men he had heard so many stories of back home. Maybe someday he would be lucky enough to be able to call them true friends. Maybe they could look beyond his youth one day and count him among them as the man he so desperately wanted to be. And maybe, just maybe, he could prove to himself that he did deserve to belong here with them.

Vincent, a young man only a year older than D'Artagnan, walked over to him with quiet footsteps on the new wooden scaffold they built for watch duty. The boards creaked slightly under their combined weight, but it was barely audible above the wind. "What do you think we're in for," he asked, shivering. "Another two feet?"

"I hope not," D'Artagnan replied, straining his eyes over the top of the stone barrier. "I've never seen so much snow in my life and I'm already sick of it."

Vincent chuckled. "Something tells me I'd be sick of those warm summers in the south you told me of. Must be the weather in our blood making us so miserable. You're not much acquainted with the cold and I grew up in it and I still don't like it, either way we're doomed to our fates."

D'Artagnan turned to him and frowned. "And what would those be?"

Vincent gave him a good-hearted shove. "Turning stiffer than death. Real snowmen. That might put a smile on the captain's face, us too frozen to disobey orders."

D'Artagnan couldn't help but laugh at the images his mind was producing, as if latching on to some kind of comfort-however absurd-could make the cold ease.

"Why don't you go in for a few minutes and melt that snow off you," Vincent offered. "I'll keep watch."

"I'm alright," he defended, tugging his hood closer around his face.

Vincent sighed. "Go, you stubborn Gascon. Monsieur de Treville will be around soon and I'm not going to be the one who has to explain your frostbitten hide to him because you were too stupid to go in for a few minutes."

"Sounds like I'm doing you a favor," D'Artagnan teased, going retrieve his musket before his reprieve. "I'm not sure how I should feel about that."

Vincent called his name softly and D'Artagnan turned back. He never heard what words Vincent had on his lips and he hadn't heard the gun shot either. All he heard was the thud of his body hitting the wooden floor. Blood particles still coated the air from where he had been standing. It didn't register to him what happened at first, not until he tore his eyes away from Vincent to see Jacques who was on guard farther down jumping into action, running to the stairs, trying to sound the alarm. But he soon joined Vincent's fate when his body jerked to the side and he tumbled down the stone stairs into a bloody heap at the bottom.

Both unmoving.

Still.

Dead.

Not dead.

…_dead._

"D'Artagnan," Porthos yelled from below.

He whipped his head in the direction of the loud commanding voice, telling him to "Get down!" and was too much in shock to even realize he was still standing.

There was no time to note the fierce and worried expression on Porthos' face, or for D'Artagnan to berate himself for his own stupidity. As he complied, another bullet whizzed by where his head was only seconds prior. To everyone else it must have seemed like thunder was exploding all around them, but to D'Artagnan they sounded like nothing more than pebbles hitting windows over the blood rushing in his ears. He crawled over to where Vincent lay, staying as low as possible, and when he reached the young man he turned him over. He needed to make sure it was true. And for some unknown reason, it was only real when he was face to face with his bloodied comrade whose head wasn't entirely there anymore.

What had Vincent wanted to say to him?

Who would tell his parents of his death?

Who would mourn him-

Another shot burst through a weak set of stones and mortar next to him, bringing with it a cloud of ash and dust. He flinched away from the offending particles and tried to protect his eyes with his hand as he once more pressed his body flat on the stained wooden planks. More bullets either wedged into the stone façade or somehow made their way through, some miraculously missing him even when he was as low as he possibly could be. He hated being pinned down like this. Helpless until the barrage would stop with his musket set down several feet away.

As much as he didn't want to die, he also didn't want to die like this, a coward's death without a weapon or sword in his hand at the very least. Half protecting his head and half venting his emotions, he squeezed and gripped at his hair for the patience he needed to stay still until it was over. Every part of his body was burning with the need to run, but the better part of his brain kept them frozen, even when another bullet ripped through the thick material of his cloak, centimeters from the skin on the lower point of his back. He kept a cry of frustration firmly lodged in his throat, refusing to set it loose.

The only safe way off the scaffold was the stone stairs on the other end, past Vincent's body, past Jacques, but with the unfortunate state that corner of the fort was in any man would be a dead one the moment he chanced a step up or down. The cover was simply gone due to the cold and the current barrage of musket-balls. He looked to his side and his eyes went wide when he realized his only saving grace, the stone wall beside him, was also crumbling under the onslaught. If he didn't move within the next few seconds he would be an open target.

He numbly shot to his only other escape left, and not without serious hesitation: the thirty-foot drop from the edge of the scaffold. His insides churned at the thought of walking away from a fall like that without injury. Heights had never bothered him before, much, but maybe it was the grief that was confusing his raging survival instincts. Was he about to trade one manner of death for another?

"Through the rails," Aramis called, hands cupped around his mouth. "Use the supports-Now!"

D'Artagnan looked down from the edge of the scaffold and saw them, but worried how much weight they would hold-

"Move, you idiot," Athos shouted, furious but clearer than Aramis.

"Jump!" Porthos cried, with waiting arms.

Maybe it was by the grace of his friends. Maybe it was by God himself, but something snapped his abnormally slow brain out of the paralyzing shock that had immobilized him. Determination pushed through and filled every extremity with energy, with a life or death hunger for action. As the wall protecting him finally crumbled he hooked his feet and hands around the poles and swung his body over the edge. The wood creaked ominously, but he paused to take a breath and let his momentum settle before dislodging his feet and hooking them around one of the crossbeams underneath the flooring.

Slowly and if a little shaky, he made his way down the supports until there was nothing left to do but let go. He trusted Porthos. He trusted Aramis. And he certainly trusted Athos. So when he had to, he let himself fall into all the chaos of the rousing camp, knowing they would be there to catch him. His landing was a bit rougher than he thought it would be, but Porthos didn't drop him-as it was the large man was hesitant to let him go. D'Artagnan had to wiggle and struggle loose to regain the dignity of standing on his own two feet. It was true that he wasn't feeling particularly strong at the moment from all that had just happened, but he would be damned before he let it show-weak knees or not.

Men didn't tremble.

Soldiers didn't weep.

Men and soldiers had no time for it.

* * *

**A/N: Chapter breaks will be a bit different this time, shorter for easier reads which means more chapters, but not a lot of new material to add to the original length. But who knows, something could come to me before posting the last chapter. There will be a filler-sequel to Lionheart that chronologically comes before True Faith. Not sure of the title just yet. But I think Ajax deserves some more screen time. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two – Shields of Old (Pt. 2)**

_Yesterday…_

"Here," D'Artagnan said, tossing him the half empty bottle of wine. "It's not much, but they won't miss it."

Athos caught it one-handed and tossed back a curious look. The boy shifted under his gaze and wouldn't meet his eyes. He nearly groaned in defeat at the sight. Yes, he had complained about not having enough wine around. Yes, his moods had been rather volatile lately from the lack of it-after Treville ordered strict rations of everything, from food and wine down to bullets and string for their hunting snares. But had his foul moods affected the boy that much? The very notion seemed ridiculous. This cocky stubborn and independent little upstart that they had let into their ranks of friendship and brotherhood was intimidated by him?

Rubbish.

But the more Athos thought on it the more it made sense. Aramis and Porthos were used to his temperament after so many years. He had forgotten that D'Artagnan, in many ways, was still innocent and thus more open to the misunderstandings that Aramis and Porthos would normally cast aside. "Thank you," he said, finally remembering his manners.

The young musketeer nodded and put his hat back on, intending to return to his cot on the other side of the barracks. All four of them had protested at first at being separated, but Treville had stayed by his decision; by age and by rank. Technically, and unfortunately, that left D'Artagnan under Monsieur des Essarts' watchful eye, not Treville's, and not theirs. The boy was sure to have made friends with some of the recruits by now-hell, some small part of him hoped D'Artagnan would soon find him too boring and exchange his company for those more his age and…vitality. There was just something about the way the boy looked at him that unnerved Athos to the core.

Naked trust.

Unyielding faith.

Even…admiration.

Youth! How he despised it at times. And yet, it stirred something in him when those curious doe-like eyes found his. Why couldn't the boy look at him with that glint-filled fierceness he had seen so often on missions and in battle? That, at least, was something familiar to him. Was it warmth or acceptance the boy was looking for? He wanted to scoff and chalk it all up to hero worship-not that Athos had any indication as to where that came from either! And if that was still somehow true, after the little quality time they had spent together, then D'Artagnan was in for a rude awakening sooner or later. But did he want that epiphany sooner or later for himself?

Athos uncorked the bottle and held it under his nose for a moment. Then, with a reluctant decision firmly in mind he called the boy back. D'Artagnan turned, expectant, but hesitant as Athos corked the bottle closed again. "Find another cup."

The boy looked surprised for a moment and opened his mouth to decline the invitation, but Athos had none of it. He would…_help_ to ease that awkwardness between them if it killed him, because if he didn't then Aramis would kill him for making the situation worse. Later, when they were both comfortable and privately enjoying their spoils D'Artagnan broke what was no longer an awkward silence between them. And he did it in a way that Athos didn't expect.

"Does it ever go away," the boy asked, quiet and unsure.

"What," he questioned.

"The pain…and the guilt."

Athos sighed. Sometimes he forgot exactly how young D'Artagnan really was. The boy did a good job of masking it, but it was moments like this that made Athos regret letting him into their lives so easily. "Of taking a life?"

D'Artagnan shook his head and tilted the glass in his hands, playing with the last sip of wine at the bottom of his cup. "Of letting it go."

Ah. Well, that too should have been expected. Taking lives as a soldier was one lesson Athos felt he shouldn't have to teach. Learning to live, however, with the betrayal (because in his mind death and betrayal were one in the same) of a woman, of a special woman, was a lesson he never wanted to teach anyone, and especially not the boy. Perhaps it would feel easier for him to push the matter aside if Constance had been in any similar hateful form to Milady. But she hadn't been, damn her. Not in a single way. She had been innocent, just as D'Artagnan was and is. "She's in a better place," he replied.

"I know…That should comfort me, but it doesn't."

"Would she want you to wallow in misery, or live?"

"Live," D'Artagnan answered, as if it were obvious.

And it was. "Then it's simple."

Athos drained the last of his wine and set the cup aside. He leaned back and wrapped his cloak tighter around himself and imagined that the fire between them was twice as large. This was not the kind of conversation he was looking to have. Loss. What man didn't know loss? Why speak of it as if it were such an uncommon thing?

D'Artagnan looked up, with all traces of longing gone. "Is everything in this world so easily cut out for you? Is that how you pass your days, finding simple answers to difficult questions? Is that what helps you sleep at night?"

Athos set his teeth together and tried to ignore the accusing tone the boy threw at him, for both their sakes. "Pray tell, what did you hope to hear?"

"Something better."

"Life is never as grand as people make it out to be, not unless they're trying to sell you something at an exorbitant price and not without an underhanded additional fee. Trusting people to be fair in this world, for justice to survive in the end, will get you killed."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Trust has nothing to do with it-"

"It has everything to do with every person that crosses your path. One day, when you grow up and lose those childish notions of attachment you'll learn how unnecessarily complicated it is. You simplify your life, you lessen the pain, you live longer."

"You can't believe that," D'Artagnan said, softer.

"I do. And the sooner you come to terms with that the better."

"You're lying. I can see it in your eyes."

Athos bristled and tried to loose his clenched jaw. Who was this boy to sit there and judge him? "I don't appreciate being called a liar-"

"And I don't appreciate being taken for an immature fool who knows nothing about the hardships of life," D'Artagnan hissed. Abruptly the boy stood, tossing his cup aside in anger. "I would cast your words and coldness aside if it weren't for the part of you that I know wants to fly free above it all. You may have hidden it from Porthos and Aramis, but you don't fool me. Every man was born with a heart. If he was not he would be no creature of God's. Without it, yes, life is as black and white and dull as any simple animal can understand. But men are not animals. Men reason and feel. It's our lot in life, no matter how painful it can be. No matter how you try to rationalize it, Athos, life is complicated. It's indefinable. And it's difficult. You tell me to move on as if it's an easy matter, but it isn't. And it shouldn't be. Not ever."

Athos leaned forward with confident arms resting on his knees. "Then why did you ask me that question if not in search for an answer? You can say it however many ways you like but what you say and how you live are two different things, boy. Coming to Paris to be a musketeer was simple for you, wasn't it? Loyalty is always a simpler matter to you than to most and when it comes to honor and pride it's never a difficult choice now is it?"

"…do you really think me so simple, Athos?"

It wasn't the question itself that stilled Athos' hot tongue, it was the way D'Artagnan said it, with a kind of loaded resignation that spoke of old ghosts and age beyond his years.

"I wasn't looking for an answer," D'Artagnan continued. "I was looking for something much more substantial. Compassion."

Athos sat back with a scoff, not in shame but bitterness. "There's not enough wine in the camp for that."

"Forgive me, then. I shouldn't have expected anything more from a friend who's good at nothing else."

Athos opened his mouth to reply, but found D'Artagnan already gone. The insult still stung and it hung over him like a dense wet cloud. He cursed that country-bred boy who dared to think let alone say those things to his face. He cursed the fact that Porthos had offered him a place to stay in their lives. He even cursed the day that child ran into him, ruining his shirt AND knocking his injured shoulder into being. That _boy_ caused him pain, that _boy_ uprooted what peace he'd finally been able to sow for himself, _that boy_…reminded him what it was like to feel…something in a very long time. Once his temper cooled he realized that he hadn't had anything to say to that insult in the first place. Opening his mouth to return it had been instinct only.

Further into the night, when the majority of the men with the exception of the night watch were asleep Athos had regretted his harsh words and coldness. As much as Athos would never admit it aloud he knew all too well that it was D'Artagnan himself that made his days pass easier. Maybe he hadn't been ready for the change, but the older musketeer couldn't very well do anything about it now. And even if he was successful in pushing D'Artagnan away, there was still some damned part of him that was afraid to accept the consequences of that. Damn the boy and his ideals, he was important just the way he was, young and full of enough hope for them all.

Who was _he_ to snuff that out?

At any rate, D'Artagnan hadn't left him-_them_ yet. And it wasn't looking like he would any time soon, which meant some kind of security in their friendship. But it also meant that Athos regrettably had something he still needed to fix. Sleepless as he was he could find no reason to stay in bed so he left his room with a specific purpose in mind. He knew D'Artagnan would be relieving the night guard before dawn. And he also knew how cold those early hours were, how cold it was growing too. It was a simple matter of making sure the boy didn't catch the sickness that was going around.

It was a practical matter that could mean whatever he wanted it to mean.

So when he silently snuck over to the sleeping shivering boy, he laid his warmest and best cloak over him as an apology, because they both knew he would never utter one aloud. He could get by with the other worn cloak he used for easier mobility when hunting. It was a small sacrifice for a big wrong he was trying to rectify, but he was determined to suffer for it. His conscience wouldn't let him know peace again until he did.

* * *

That morning saw the poor icicle of a post boy in the infirmary and Athos grumbling to himself after receiving a letter from Grimaud, his family's old servant who he charged with the upkeep of his estate. Mostly he ignored the man's monthly letters, sometimes choosing to burn them without opening just for spite. It wasn't as if the man was intolerable himself, quite the opposite. He was quiet, he rarely spoke, and he was much better at bookkeeping than Athos had ever been. But the man's incessant pleas for Athos to come home and run things himself, sometimes said between the lines, incensed him into such a fury he would shut himself up for days.

Why he was writing a letter to the man now, however, was a different story. Grimaud's two elder sisters had both perished from injuries sustained in an accident on the road, and he was named their beneficiary to settle their affairs. God knew how much the man could do with a leave of absence. For Athos that meant he wouldn't hear from the servant for at least two months, so either way it was a bittersweet blessing for both. Though Grimaud nearly drove him mad at times, Athos never would have wished such a tragedy on anyone, let alone the patient man who he respected alongside his own father growing up. It would take longer for this letter to reach him from La Rochelle and the post wasn't due to leave until tomorrow, but in some matters Athos was nothing but punctual. It was ingrained into him, after all.

Though his mind was otherwise focused, temporarily forgetting about his exhaustion from the sleepless night before, he still registered the sound of someone entering the small room he shared with Aramis and Porthos-both of whom had yet to return from their night duties.

"Athos-"

"Wear it," he said without turning his back to acknowledge the boy's presence. His assumptions were correct when he heard the rustling of fabric and an annoyed sigh. "There's a storm coming," he continued, dipping his pen into the inkwell. "And the temperature's dropping."

"But-"

Athos finally turned and glared. That seemed to shut the boy up, if a bit sheepishly too. He tried not to wince at the bags under the boy's eyes.

"Thank you," D'Artagnan said with an embarrassed frown.

Athos waved him off impatiently and turned back to his task to hide his own embarrassment. The thanks wasn't needed.

"Athos-"

"_Yes,_" Athos groaned, and loudly. Would he get no peace this day?

"I didn't mean what I said last night. I'm sorry, if it still means anything."

For a second time, before Athos could turn to face him, D'Artagnan was gone. With that irritating quality about the boy aside, would he never stop feeling like he owed D'Artagnan something? He sat for a long time, long enough to hear the morning birds in the darkness. Frustrated, he tossed the unfinished letter aside and stood up, throwing his other worn cloak around his shoulders to go for a walk. On his way, Aramis joined him and tossed him some bread for breakfast.

"How goes our young friend's attempts to melt your icy heart today," Aramis asked with a teasing twinkle in his eyes.

"Mind your own damned business," he groused, ignoring the smirk on Aramis' face. "Don't you have morning prayers to see to?"

"Just because I choose to still carry the word of God with me doesn't mean I intend on impressing it onto any other lost soul that happens my way. Faith is meant to be found, not fed."

Athos wrapped his hunting cloak around him tighter against the wind. "You were fed once."

"And behold the results. A man of scripture takes up his sword instead to save souls. I have too many uses in life to find peace in just one. Sometimes it's in God, other times it's in man's plain stubbornness."

"There's plenty of that in the boy alone. By now you should have had an earth-shaking epiphany-"

That was when they heard the first shot. When they heard the second one they started moving. When they heard Porthos shouting D'Artagnan's name they ran.

Athos caught up to Porthos first. Men were shouting and yelling for others to get their arms and form some kind of a defensive position to where they could return fire. Athos could hear Monsieur de Treville shouting somewhere behind them, but he couldn't tear his eyes away from the guard platform. There were two bodies lying down on it. One was stark white and unmoving, blood dripping down and staining through the wooden planks beneath him. The other…Athos recognized as D'Artagnan (with no small amount of relief) who seemed uninjured but not far from injury any time soon. From the state of the centuries-old mortar and stonework it wouldn't be long before someone got lucky with a musket out there.

What had made him call out to the boy? Was it because he hadn't moved when Aramis told him to? Was it the sorry sight of D'Artagnan's musket several feet away from him, making him practically defenseless? No. It was neither. It was the blank stare in the boy's eyes, the way he twisted his fists in his hair, how low he held his head. All bore the faintest signs of the one thing he thought he'd never see because of D'Artagnan's stubbornness and bravery.

Fear.

And that made Athos angry, furious even. The last thing he ever wanted to see was the one thing the boy had promised never to show. To see it now, when he was a split-second away from getting himself killed because of…his own inexperience at being under this kind of a barrage, at being pinned down with no options left but to put his trust in someone else, was something ten times worse than a sin. Before he knew it he was shouting for D'Artagnan to move. When the boy finally listened to reason and jumped Athos was more worried about restraining himself from strangling the life out of the boy for making…_them_ worry.

But Aramis saved him the trouble by helping D'Artagnan to his feet, once Porthos finally set him down. To the boy's annoyance, Aramis started checking and rechecking him for injuries. "Are you hurt?"

"No-"

"You're certain?"

"Yes-"

Athos flung D'Artagnan's cloak aside to pick up where Aramis left off. "What about-"

"I'm fine!" D'Artagnan stumbled out of his reach, waving his arms to bat all three of them away. Then the boy paled at the sight of the hole in the cloak and immediately-to Athos' ire-started to apologize. "Athos, I'm sorry about-"

"It's a damn cloak, boy. It's replaceable." He left the 'you're not' part off, but that didn't seem to help. His train of thought seemed loud enough for even Porthos to hear. And damn that big oaf and Aramis both, they were grinning to each other over the boy's head.

"D'Artagnan," Treville called, making his way over. "How many are there? Did you see?"

"No," D'Artagnan said, ducking his head in shame. "I'm sorry, Monsieur. I didn't see-"

"Alright," the captain sighed. "You four with me!"

D'Artagnan kept his head low to hide his reddening face. Athos lead the boy on with a firm hand on his back, telling himself that he was only looking out for the boy since the shock hadn't fully worn off yet. As they went D'Artagnan's jaw was still tight and his eyes burned with determination despite his hunched stature, but Athos could tell that his proximity to the young musketeer was helping. The further they went the more D'Artagnan was coming around to himself and his surroundings. Athos just hoped he didn't notice him fingering that ominous hole in the cloak that had been so close to striking the boy's back.

* * *

Idiot! Stupid, _stupid_ idiot! Why hadn't he looked? Why hadn't he dropped down before Porthos told him to? Why didn't he grab his musket? Why did he just stand there like a complete and utter fool?! He could have seen how many rebels there were. He should have seen how many, but when Monsieur de Treville asked him and he had nothing to say for himself it was the worst kind of humiliation he'd felt since joining the Musketeers. Even letting Rochefort shoot him and take his letter of recommendation didn't compare to this. At least in that case he only had his own welfare to be concerned with.

It was that kind of thinking that not only got you killed on the battlefield, but also your comrades-who in many ways were just as innocent, or more so, than you.

If he had been paying attention Vincent might still be alive. That other boy, Jacques, might still have lived. D'Artagnan had blood on his hands now, blood that felt so much more real than the blood of the enemies he had been forced to kill in battle. The sensations in his fists were so much more real and morbid than it made his stomach churn and his hands itchy to wipe them clean. But to do that would mean to deny his fault in their deaths. Vincent and Jacque had names. They had families, families who would never get the chance to bury their sons, families who would never know why their sons died needless deaths.

But he knew why.

He would remember.

And he might go his entire life without being able to…what?

Apologize to their families? He didn't know who they were, where they lived. He couldn't apologize to either Vincent or Jacques. They were both gone. D'Artagnan looked down and noticed that his hands were shaking, so he wiped them dry on his pants and gripped his sword to hide it. Treville led them into some deep brush just off the road and told them to ready their muskets. Before he could draw his sword Athos pressed one of his small muskets into his hands.

He looked up, confused and still a little doubtful. "You trust me with this?"

Athos readied his weapon but gave pause for one moment to give him the last push he felt he needed to focus. "Don't waste it," he whispered.

Treville turned and whispered to their company of several bed-tired and cold-weary men. "We wait here. Make them think we've left the back defenseless and lure them in. If they want a fight, then you all had better damn well give them one they won't forget!"

There was a near-silent murmur of assent, and then the captain was making his way to the side. Though D'Artagnan did his best to not look at the captain as he passed, he almost did when Treville stopped next to him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't turn your back," Treville whispered in his ear. "And make sure they're dead if they fall."

D'Artagnan nodded and tried to swallow past something thick in his throat, but didn't show it. Treville moved on after squeezing his shoulder, and moments later the captain was right. Rebels started trying to move around the back in somewhat organized groups and lines. There weren't many of them, but there were certainly enough for their small company of men. D'Artagnan pulled out Athos' pistol-sized musket and waited for the sound of return fire from the fort. He took aim with the men beside him and waited for the order, determined to see at least two men fall at his hands today.

One for Vincent.

And one for Jacques.

Treville gave the order. After that it was something near chaos. Another group of rebels came in to try and ambush them from behind. Then the front charged them with swords, determined to finish them off. D'Artagnan and Athos drew their own swords at the same time and pushed forward with a handful of other men until they had the rebels on the run. Some stopped and turn to fight. They lost track of Aramis and Porthos along the way, but they continued to drive their enemies back from where they had come.

An explosion nearby knocked everyone off their feet. D'Artagnan looked up and saw part of the wall of the fort collapse. Two rebels ran away in retreat, laughing to themselves and congratulating each other on a job well done. Men all around him were moaning and screaming and all D'Artagnan could see was red. So he charged after them and managed to knock them both down a short hill. He dispatched one and engaged the other in a vicious sword fight. At one point or another he noticed that Athos had fought his way over to him. They worked, back to back until another group of scouts joined in the fray and separated them.

It was tiring work, but D'Artagnan heeded Treville's advice and never turned his back. He refused to acknowledge the pain in his limbs and the weariness in his bones, moving from one rebel to the next without hesitation, knowing that these men-some his own age-would just as soon kill him if he didn't put his full weight behind his sword. When he was finished he denied himself the chance to take a breath and looked for the next threat. And when he found it this time, his legs didn't freeze up. His thoughts didn't slow. His hands didn't fall limp.

His entire body went taut like a bowstring and he shot across the field when he saw one rebel on the ground who was shakily raising a small musket, taking aim at-

There was no time.

None to shout a warning.

None to call the man's name.

Only enough to act.

So, D'Artagnan did, without a second's hesitation, and shoved all of his weight through his shoulder into Athos' back.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three – Blackened be the Helme**

Athos had just ended one man's life when he felt something strong slam into his back and knock him off his feet. At first he connected the loud crack of a pistol musket with the attacker behind him. With reflexes that could only belong to a weathered soldier, he snatched a dagger from his belt with every intention of taking his attacker with him. The other one be damned-if he was to fall this day he would take at least one of them with him. But before he could turn and drive that blade deep in his attacker's chest he realized that the pieces didn't fit together quite so smoothly.

He hadn't been struck.

He hadn't been injured.

Athos had been pushed, deliberately.

He landed on the frozen and unforgiving ground with as much force as he felt he'd been hit. He didn't dare believe his suspicions until he rolled over onto his back. Thinking it was one thing, but seeing it brought a chill colder than the worst winter he had yet known in his living years. Through wet snow-sodden hair and his own dawning haze of murderous rage, he saw D'Artagnan lying on the cold ground with his head turned toward him. For one heart-stopping moment Athos thought the boy was dead. He wasn't blinking. He wasn't moving. But he was breathing. He was trembling. And he was trying to speak. Nothing came out. Words were out of reach for numb and senseless lips.

For the both of them.

Athos didn't remember grabbing his sword, but the next thing he knew he was on his feet, across the field, and standing over the culprit with his sword embedded in his heart. The rebel tried to speak and grabbed onto Athos' sleeve, a glimmer of fight still left in his eyes, but before Athos could do anything else it faded and the man's grip slackened. Only when the rebel's arm dropped and his body went limp did the red fade from Athos' sight. He sheathed his bloody sword and ran back to the boy lying in the snow, not giving the man a second's glance or thought.

"Ath-thos," D'Artagnan gasped. "You're all r-right?"

He ignored the boy's words and avoided looking into those wide, endlessly white eyes. Instead, he tore at the young musketeer's clothes and tried to find the source of all the blood. And when he found it Athos blanched at the gruesome sight of the torn gaping wound in the boy's chest. It was something worse than a slap to the face, and it must have shown because the boy was finally trying to move, jerking and tensing his reluctant limbs. It was as if the boy couldn't understand why he could barely raise his hand or curl it into a fist.

Athos looked at him and D'Artagnan gazed back steady and calm as could be.

"W-why can't I m-move? What," D'Artagnan asked, shivering. "What's wrong?"

"You don't feel anything?"

D'Artagnan's forehead creased in confusion. "No."

"You will in a moment." Athos ripped off his cloak and inner jacket to get to the extra shirt he had on for the cold. In his haste he pulled both shirts off, tossed them aside and threw his jacket back on before he bunched the shirts together and pressed them to the wound to staunch the bleeding. He was no doctor. He was no field surgeon. But he would not allow D'Artagnan to die waiting for one.

The reaction was immediate and expected, though somewhat jarring. The young musketeer cried out and rigidly latched onto Athos' wrists, pulling and gripping in a noteworthy attempt to force him off. There they were…those familiar lines of pain surrounding closed eyes, but something inside his chest pulled at the sight of them. Athos couldn't remember ever seeing them so defined before. Either the boy excelled at hiding pain or he had a higher tolerance than Athos thought. Whether the latter was true or not, he was not going to sit here and wait for someone to realize they were missing.

"Aramis," Athos shouted in the stillness around them. "Porthos!" All sounds of battle had since faded, and the only sounds they could still hear were the howling wind and groans of dying men. He looked for any sign that he had been heard and made to shout again, but he changed that call to a curse when the boy nearly succeeded in removing his slippery hands. He started to kick out with his legs, but Athos had to effectively sit on them, or at least trap them with his own legs as he knelt and refused to let up on the pressure.

"D'Artagnan, stop," he snapped, putting a little more of his weight down just to keep his balance. "_Stop!_"

An agonized moan that bordered on what a hunter would call a dying scream of pain from a cornered animal was what he got in reply. Regardless, Athos continued to press down and renewed his efforts to get them help. D'Artagnan continued to thrash under him, but eventually he did cease his struggles to dislodge Athos' hands. Instead, the boy gripped his wrists for all their worth like an anchor. Athos wondered if those hands would do more than bruise, but it was a trivial matter in light of the tug of war he was playing with the tenuous life beneath him. The physical pain was welcome because it grounded Athos firmly where he needed to be, and it reminded him of what he needed to do in those crucial moments.

"You are going to be fine, boy," he said, even as their breaths continued to turn to frost before their eyes. "Would I lie to you?"

"N-no," D'Artagnan groaned, tears gathering in his barely open eyes.

"Then start looking like you believe me, damn it."

* * *

Aramis came to with a hiss and a flinch at the constant throbbing in his skull. Despite the numbness in his cheeks and lips he managed to spit out the mouthful of blood that was threatening to choke all future prospects for fresh air. He dragged himself into a sitting position and looked around with no small amount of disbelief. The overwhelming scent of blood on the air did nothing for his frayed senses, so for the next few minutes he fought a hard battle with his churning stomach. Had he really gotten hit that hard? All that lay around him were dead men, some from their company, most from the rebels. Surely not all of this had been done in such a short amount of time? He gingerly touched the side of his head and sighed at the sight of more blood. As if seeing it all around him wasn't enough, he thought. Maybe a handful of snow would do his injury some good-

"Still alive?"

Aramis spun around with a dagger already in his hand, but he stopped halfway when he recognized the voice, dropping the blade with no small sigh of relief. "You know better than to do that, Porthos," he wearily snapped, but inside he was overjoyed to hear his dear friend.

He drank in the sight above him, thanking God that he didn't have to count Porthos among the dead. After they'd been separated, Aramis thought he heard someone shouting Porthos' name, as if he had…but he hadn't. Porthos extended his uninjured arm and Aramis took it slowly. The bigger man pulled Aramis to his feet and surprised him further when he pulled him into a rough embrace. He tripped over his unresponsive feet and his head swam but Porthos thankfully held him up while the world tilted.

"You're losing your touch, priest," Porthos said with a slight tremble.

"I'd say you stole it from me," Aramis mumbled, clutching the fabric of the man's ruined cloak as if it were his only salvation in the midst of a tumultuous sea.

Porthos chuckled and generously held him until his balance returned. "How's your head," he asked, inspecting it himself.

Aramis smacked his hand away. "It's fine-What happened to your arm?"

Porthos stepped out of reach and stuck his nose in the air. "Flesh wound. Absolutely nothing to-"

They both stopped to listen.

It was faint.

And it echoed, almost all around them in the valley.

"Did you hear…?"

Porthos nodded and without wasting time he set off, calling out Athos' name in reply. Aramis followed closely as they climbed through the underbrush and used the trees to propel them up to higher ground. Finally, when they reached the top and got a better idea of where Athos was calling from, Aramis allowed his rampant thoughts to breathe. Why would Athos be calling for them? Was someone injured? Dying? Captured? Where were their men? Where was Treville? Was the fighting over? Where was D'Artagnan? And what was that underlying tone in Athos' voice the closer they got?

It got the blood flowing through his limbs again, that was certain. But the second they broke through the tree line and found both of their missing friends, he felt the blood leave him in a rush. Somehow he made it over to them without landing in a heap and had to push at Athos' hands to see the extent of the damage. "Athos, let me see-"

Where his hands had shook earlier, they now stilled under the pressure of time. Perhaps that would have made him a good surgeon in another life, but at present he was a soldier on the battlefield with a friend who had a matter of minutes before God would have to make the decision for them. Aramis shook his head at the sight of the wound and replaced Athos' hands. "No, this is beyond my skill. Porthos, find Monsieur de Treville and get a physician-his best if possible-"

"Run," Athos growled.

If anyone thought size mattered in quickness, he would surely be proven a fool with how fast Porthos took off. Aramis turned to take a better look at D'Artagnan but stopped before he got to the boy when he saw how Athos was faring. "Let me take over, Athos," Aramis whispered, taking position before the man could object. "Your hands are shaking."

And he had every intention of taking over, but D'Artagnan wasn't making that easy.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis said. "Let Athos go."

"I can't," the boy groaned.

"Yes, you can-"

"I can't!-"

Athos glared. "Just do it with me-"

"If you don't move your hands I won't be able to do _any_ good!"

It was difficult but they managed to dislodge D'Artagnan's iron-grip so Aramis could replace Athos. The wind continued to whip at their faces and burn at the exposed skin. The coming storm was close. Right on their damned doorstep. In less than an hour's time they would be facing white out conditions again. And if Porthos didn't hurry they would all be dead. Athos didn't move far. He tried to shield Aramis and D'Artagnan mostly from the wind, which was a losing battle.

Aramis set his jaw tight against the horrible sounds his young friend was making. At times he nearly lost the battle with the water in his own eyes, but whenever he felt he was about to fail he busied them with looking for Porthos' return. It was a chest wound. Why, Lord, did it have to be a chest wound? It was practically a death sentence. And here he was keeping D'Artagnan's lifeblood from escaping for what? A few more minutes? An hour at most?

Why was Athos holding the boy's hand and telling him he would be all right? If anything Aramis should be giving him his last rites, but it was the way Athos was looking at D'Artagnan that kept him silent. He looked so sure, so certain the boy would live. Later, he would question it and chalk it up to his own shock and denial, but in the moment he went along with it until Porthos returned with aide and a wagon of all things. The field surgeon pushed Aramis aside and took a look for himself, shaking his head and looking unsympathetically grim. He was an older man with lines around his eyes and a pair of cracked glasses in his front pocket, but something told Aramis that even his poor sight didn't allow him to miss much.

"Monsieur," the physician said to Treville. "I don't-"

"Whatever can be done," Treville interrupted, his gaze level. "To save that boy's life, I trust that you will do it."

"And if there is naught I can do," the doctor whispered.

"Then you'll do it anyway," Athos snapped.

No one spoke and though Aramis and Porthos were in agreement with Athos, Treville remained passively silent. It seemed a contradiction that they had to bear witness to such a moment when even their leader seemed paralyzed by indecision, but Aramis didn't let up in holding down the blood. The more he thought about it the more they owed it to D'Artagnan to give him a fighting chance, despite the odds. If they didn't, if they let him die mercifully without ever knowing if he would have had a chance in the first place…then forgiveness for them would be nothing short of a cruel lie.

"Monsieur," Aramis pleaded, successfully grabbing the physician's attention. "Have a little mercy and do what is rightfully in your power to do-"

"Give the boy a chance," Porthos growled.

The physician looked to Treville, firm in his cynical arguments. But it was Porthos who broke that tense moment for them all. Even Athos deferred to the larger man's simple plea and seemed to deflate a little. In the end, Treville came back to himself and nodded to the physician in a way that meant the matter was decided. "Put him in the cart," the physician sighed.

"We can't move him," Aramis exclaimed. "The ride alone could kill him!"

"He's still conscious," the man replied, terse and impatient. "That's as good a sign as any. And he'll sooner freeze out here than bleed to death from that wound. You want mercy for this boy? Then you tell me which option _you_ think best."

Aramis promptly shut his mouth and hopped into the wagon once they tried to arrange D'Artagnan into a stable but comfortable position. He didn't dare let up on the pressure of the wound. Athos followed closely but in a daze, pushing one side of the wagon with half the fervor Porthos was doing to the other. Between the group of three soldiers, plus Athos and Porthos, they got to the infirmary just before the storm hit. But Aramis couldn't help but wonder how much time they had actually bought their friend when the worst was yet to come.

* * *

Being a soldier meant accepting that you were expendable in light of the grander scheme of things.

If it meant the life of a King, the security of a nation, the brink of a war-you did what you had to. You did what you were called to do. You denied your own survival instincts and clung to that fateful pledge you made when you accepted that uniform, trusting that you were on the right side and that your death wasn't needless. Being a soldier meant being selfless. If Athos was honest with himself that was what scared him the most about D'Artagnan, that maddening and impossibly naïve selfless nature. It almost seemed an inhuman thing because selflessness wasn't something you encountered every day. He wasn't entirely sure when he stopped believing in people like D'Artagnan, but he knew the boy had made a blasted believer out of him again in only a few short months time.

He remembered when they settled D'Artagnan on one of the lumpy infirmary beds that Athos had the boy's small hand in his again. It trembled, but not as it did when they were in the field. Athos had refused to believe that this was all for nothing. He still did. He was a firm believer in logic and he had been raised to believe that every person and every thing had a purpose in life. But the belief he adopted for himself was that, beyond all things, debts were solid and final. Though D'Artagnan was of the kind that stupidly expected no such kindness in return, Athos did not come from those who didn't pay their debts. Whether the boy liked it or not, they were saving his life. So when the doctor went to work, taking a knife and ripping D'Artagnan's clothes apart, Athos looked on with an air of impassiveness. If it needed to be done, then it would be done no matter the cost.

Treville, who had been a bystander until then-quietly giving orders by the door to officers below him-stepped forward and leaned in close to speak to the boy. "D'Artagnan," he said. "If you make me take that journey home to tell your father of your passing so help me I will make you regret it in this life or the next-do you understand me?"

To his credit, D'Artagnan kept a straight face and an even straighter voice in reply. "Yes, Monsieur-"

A strangled moan swallowed the end of his speech when Aramis shifted his weight to allow the physician a quick look. When he finished and Aramis pressed down again he succeeded in not making a sound, though his hand and limbs shook under the strain. Athos tried to keep him steady but was finding it difficult. The physician ran his knife along the flame of a candle in preparation but didn't turn to them when he issued the following monotonous speech that Athos suspected he'd given to soldiers before who served under his watch.

"I will need all of you to hold him down. I could do far worse damage if he's not perfectly still. No matter what happens, no matter what he says or does, do not let him move an inch. Understood?"

Athos tightened his hold over D'Artagnan's hand and moved to hold down his shoulder. Aramis nodded and eyed the other limb he would have to hold down after he left the wound to the physician's attention. Porthos took his position at the foot of the bed and held down the boy's legs by the top of his knees. "Just make it quick," the loud man grumbled, quiet and not without a healthy dose of hesitation.

It was then that Athos noticed that Treville was still in the room, standing behind Porthos with most of his outerwear folded neatly and put aside. While the physician reluctantly briefed his captain on what tools he would need and when, Athos turned to D'Artagnan with too many things that he wanted to say. He wanted to tell the boy that this would hurt worse than anything either of them had ever felt before, combined. He wanted to curse at him for stealing that bottle of wine for him last night because of his own terrible habits, for there was none left with which to ease what was coming next. He wanted to…damn it all, he wanted to apologize for…too many things, most of which had happened within the past twenty-four hours.

But he didn't say any of those things. Instead, he calmly looked on that wretched face and squeezed both D'Artagnan's hand and shoulder with confidence. D'Artagnan turned to him, and though he was putting up a valiant effort to remain brave and collected, he would soon lose that battle and fall hard. And it was Athos' job to catch him, if he could. "Look at me," Athos said to D'Artagnan. "Nowhere else."

The pale boy drew in a shaky breath, nodded, and settled his head on his side. He looked down once at the bloody shirts beneath Aramis' hands and then looked away, locking eyes with Athos like he told him. Athos only looked up once before they started, noticing with no small amount of annoyance that Treville had placed himself between him and the physician. His captain truly did know him too well.

"Brace yourself, young man," the doctor said, putting a leather belt between the boy's teeth and taking his position next to Aramis. "And try not to scream."

Athos resisted the urge to glare at the man, but did a poor job of it.

"Alright," the man told Aramis. "Let off, slowly."

D'Artagnan sighed in relief once the pressure on his chest was gone, but the respite was short-lived. Aramis scarcely had time to hold down D'Artagnan's other arm and shoulder before the surgeon pressed a short knife into the wound in search for the bullet. And it became crystal clear in those first few seconds, even considering all the blood he lost, that the boy still had a lot of fight left in him. It would have been easy to hold him down between the three of them, but there was one thing that made the job twice as difficult than it normally would have been.

The sounds of pure agony.

At first they only came out as soft whimpers, but the deeper the surgeon went the more they sounded like the cursed man was stripping the very life-force from the boy, one resistant ounce at a time. The first sharp cry that made it past those cracked lips was jarring enough. Perhaps Athos let it show. Perhaps he didn't have to. Either way he supposed D'Artagnan thought he could do as the callous physician requested and not scream. Athos had fully been expecting him to, but he never imagined those coming screams would cut through his shields of impassivity like they were nothing.

If taking a bullet didn't make things real, trying to remove it did.

Maybe it was seconds, minutes, or hours-Athos wasn't sure-but he remembered seeing something besides blood and dirt on D'Artagnan's face. It wasn't sweat. It was a single tear, squeezed out through his tightly closed eyelids. It fell untarnished into the darkness of his hairline above his ear in an uninterrupted straight line. After that Athos lost all sense of sound.

Those screams that cut their way so viciously into his being dulled. And something else snapped. He let go of that clenched white hand and grabbed onto the boy's elbow to hold him steady. Then he let go of D'Artagnan's shoulder and grabbed onto his chin, forcing his face back to him. Behind those lids were all the tears the boy had held back so far, dangerously close to falling free and with all the things that would never pass through the boy's lips, sober or not.

They sought relief.

They begged for mercy.

And they wept for a way out, for any end there could possibly be.

Nearly all of D'Artagnan's bravado was gone and beneath that normal layer of cockiness and pride and courage was the young boy Athos had only caught rare glimpses of. The raw vulnerability shook his resolve, but only for a short moment. Seeing the leather nearly bitten clean through cemented the finality in what he needed the boy to understand. "Look at me," Athos said. _I'm here for a reason, so stop trying to be brave._

D'Artagnan reached up with the hand that Athos had let go of and grasped the back of Athos' arm.

The surgeon cursed and his knife slipped against the wedged bullet, but he tried again and dug deep to pop it loose, and with that motion pulled the loudest, most penetrating scream from the boy yet. Maybe it was an angel's mercy, but two things happened at once. D'Artagnan finally fell unconscious, his voice torn to shreds, and the bullet was finally out. With the boy no longer struggling underneath them the gravity of what had happened in that room came down like a lead weight a thousand times the size of that tiny metal ball.

It fell to Athos to pull the ruined leather from their friend's mouth. He tossed it aside and risked one glance each with Porthos and Aramis. He wasn't sure who had fared better, but he knew he hadn't done as well as he hoped. Originally he thought he could make it through the surgery without moving that impassive mask. They were laughable expectations, but he had never gotten used to hearing dear friends scream themselves raw. Yes, damn it all, _dear_ friends.

"Monsieur D'Artagnan's lucky the pistol misfired," the physician said when he was finished. "If it hadn't then he would have been dead within a matter of minutes. This bullet would have broken through the bone and done irreparable damage that no man on this earth with God's guiding hand could fix. The coming hours will tell us if he'll live, but for now there's nothing else I can do." The physician dropped the bullet into a metal dish near the bed with a loud clang.

"Thank you, Theo," Treville whispered.

All occupants of the room scarcely had a moment to breathe before a young recruit burst into the room and went straight over to Monsieur de Treville. "Monsieur," he panted. "Sergeant Reynaud and his men were found down past the hills. There was another party waiting for them, but they forced them off down back into the city. There are casualties and the rest cannot make it back on their own."

"A wagon must be sent out to them," the captain decided.

The young man shook his head. "We are trying, Monsieur, but the wind is moving the snow and burying the roads too fast to get them down there and back."

"Then find any able-bodied men that can be spared. This storm will not wait for us to get those men back. God have mercy on us," Treville sighed and donned his outerwear again before rushing out of the room.

The physicians sniffed as he threw his instruments together after running them over the candle flame again. "Will you let me see to your head, Monsieur Aramis?"

Aramis shook his head. "It's fine."

"Monsieur Porthos, your arm-"

"No," he replied, gruff in a way that would have made Athos proud.

Unperturbed, the physician made for a hasty exit as well. "Then I must see to the other men. I assume you will send for me if his condition worsens?"

"You would assume _correctly_," Aramis said with a hard look. "_Monsieur_."

Once the surly man was out of earshot Porthos muttered, "Like hell we will, merciless bastard."

"What's done is done, Porthos," Aramis sighed. The former priest shared one look with Athos and got to his feet, tugging at Porthos to follow him. "Come along. You do need that wound cleaned at the very least."

"So does yours, mother hen," Porthos half-heartedly quipped.

Aramis shoved him through the door none too gently and left Athos alone with D'Artagnan. He noticed then that he had been combing through D'Artagnan's dark damp hair with his own fingers, lingering at times by the cheekbone and other times by the ear. Was it guilt or was it his own need for comfort that spurred those open affections? It unsettled him to think that such a thing had come to him so easy, even in light of all that had transpired. Not long after that he stopped them and stood to work some of the nervous energy from his limbs by making sure the boy was warm enough. That physician had sewn the wound shut so quickly Athos thought he had done it in the blink of an eye, but it was a relief to see it properly bandaged up, and to see D'Artagnan even a little cleaner than before. He finished the job himself with a wet rag, and when there was nothing left to be done he sat on the edge of the bed and allowed himself one more touch of that young face, a gentle and warm one that the boy was sure to never remember.

"It's over now," he whispered.

And Athos truly believed that it was, because when he left the room later that day he spent the next three days brooding and avoiding D'Artagnan all together. He took extra guard shifts, he rarely returned to his quarters except to catch the few hours of sleep his mind would let him, and he took the coldest walks no other man would even dare think of taking. As the storm raged on and pounded them with wind and snow and ice, Athos found refuge in it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four – Blackened be the Helme (Pt. 2)**

Aramis hounded him day and night, or at least attempted to after Athos finally snapped at him under the pestering that he swallow his pride and see D'Artagnan. After that argument he knew some small measure of peace, until Porthos dragged him from his misery with one ominous look. He didn't know what to expect when the larger man had told him D'Artagnan was sick. Sick? How could the boy be sick? It had only been three days ago that they tore that bullet from his chest and since that day Aramis had given him the impression that the boy was _recovering_. When they reached D'Artagnan's room the strength in his legs almost gave out. He didn't know how but the boy looked worse than when he did after his surgery.

D'Artagnan was flushed and restless. One second he shivered from the cold and the next he was trying to escape the blankets that had been piled on top of him. His eyes were glassy and twitching from one side of the room to the other, unseeing beyond the haze of his fever. And he was mumbling Athos' name. Over and over.

"He's delirious," Aramis said, looking up from the boy's bedside with a drawn countenance. "And that's not the worst of it."

Athos drew closer to the bed when Aramis beckoned him and Porthos. He pulled the blankets down and pulled D'Artagnan's shirt aside. Athos couldn't help but wince at the sight of the infected wound. _This_ had developed over the course of three days? The day his skin was sewn back together the skin looked worse for wear from the damage that had been done to it, but back then it had only looked red and pink from the pulling and dried blood. Now, it looked rather gruesome. The red skin had darkened a deeper shade and between the flaps of skin that had been pulled together was the evidence of the infection itself. Yellow pus. It was mostly trapped beneath the thin layer of newly forming skin, but some of it seeped loose and gave off a horrible stench.

"Infection," Athos growled. "Have you sent for the surgeon?"

"Hours ago."

Athos tightened his grip on the sword at his side, seconds away from flying from the room on a rampage. "That bloody bastard," he seethed. "Well, where the hell is he?!"

"Attending to my other patients," the physician said, entering the room and pushing past them all without a glance. "Monsieur D'Artagnan is not the only man who needs aide in this camp. Now, if you could please move aside, gentlemen?"

Athos bristled at the man's superiority upon entering the room, but kept his mouth shut. The physician poked and prodded at the infected wound and didn't bother to hide his cynicism about D'Artagnan's chances. In the end it didn't take much between the three of them to make a convincing argument. There were, after all, three soldiers with swords in the room against one surly but unarmed physician. And what mattered most was cleaning the infection out, not a battle of wits that cost precious time.

Athos just wished they had a drop of wine somewhere in the camp to give the poor boy.

Aramis leaned down and whispered to D'Artagnan in calm and soothing tones as the physician behind him was again running his instruments over a candle flame. "D'Artagnan," he said. "We need to clean out your bullet wound. It's infected. Do you understand?"

D'Artagnan turned towards the voice but still wore a look of incomprehension.

Aramis squeezed his shoulder in sympathy. "It's going to hurt but it needs to be done."

"More pain," the boy asked, small and quiet.

"Yes, but it needs to be done or you will die."

"But I already am. Aren't I in hell, for what I did?"

"What-no! No, you're-" Aramis looked up for guidance, but he got nothing from Athos. "D'Artagnan, you're with us. You're going to be fine-"

"I didn't mean to-I didn't know-I'm sorry-"

Aramis stopped the jumbled litany with soft shushing sounds. "You have nothing to be sorry for-"

"If you're quite finished," The surgeon loudly interrupted. "I don't have all day. And neither does Monsieur D'Artagnan."

Porthos mumbled something vulgar and rolled his eyes as the three of them reluctantly took up their familiar positions. Draining the wound was no easier than prying the bullet loose. All it gave them was more fuel for nightmares and sleepless nights. Hours later, after the sun had gone down, leaving the entire camp in a thick blanket of snowy darkness, Athos sat with his head in his hands, alone by the boy's bedside. D'Artagnan slept, but not peacefully. Who would expect him to after having a chest wound reopened, drained, and invaded with a cloth soaked in alcohol?

They were lucky the surgeons kept small bottles of them hidden in the supply trunks. It was foresight that smart men, (much as Athos was loathe to admit it) such as the one who treated D'Artagnan, risked against direct orders from superiors. It was due to insubordination that D'Artagnan was given another chance to live. And it was the physician's lack of sympathy that got them through it, even when they thought it was over and done with. Just when Athos thought the surgeon would put the blasted cloth aside and start re-stitching the wound back together he saw the man re-soaking it with the last of the alcohol he had.

"There won't be enough of this if the infection returns," was the excuse he got for another round of _necessary_ pain.

It _had_ been necessary, even if the words D'Artagnan spoke during it would haunt him for the rest of his days. After all, it wasn't as if it were an unjust punishment for what he had done. Athos had made another grave mistake by distancing himself from the boy, and now he not only had his own actions to suffer the repercussions from but D'Artagnan's own needless suffering too. He hadn't thought his absence would affect the boy that much…

D'Artagnan shifted in his bed, listless and in pain. Athos sat forward and laid a cool cloth on his forehead as the physician had instructed. "Quiet, boy."

Exhaustion, even from that small amount of movement alone, pulled the young musketeer back from the realm of consciousness. It was a long night Athos spent by his side, changing the wet cloths for cooler ones, applying them to the boy's forehead, his chest, and under his arms-though he still contended the necessity of the physician's instructions on that last bit. The fever raged on through the night and only by morning did it seem to have gone down the slightest bit, but that hadn't satisfied the physician when he came the next day. Still as cynical as ever, he refused the calls of Aramis and Porthos when D'Artagnan's fever worsened again later in the day.

They had looked at the wound themselves (this time much loosely stitched back together) and found no traces of the infection they had to clean out the previous day, and only then did Aramis seem to lose his faith in the outcome. Why else would the fever return if it hadn't already gone too deep for them to remedy? Athos knew better. No, he didn't think he knew better. He _did_ know better. Fevers were an unpredictable thing and often gave a false impression. After all the pain they put D'Artagnan through yesterday this fever would wither and die.

D'Artagnan would recover.

It was a shame that no one shared his sentiments like they had for the previous few days. Aramis was vocal about his disagreement, but Porthos was silent. After Aramis was done talking Athos literally kicked both men out of the room and bolted it behind them. It was a childish notion, but it was a crucial hour they were playing with. And Athos would not allow his faith to be shaken so easily. He wasn't sure when he fell asleep but he jerked awake to the sounds of D'Artagnan restless from another bout of fever-induced dreams. Athos would not call them nightmares. They were only dreams. Only dreams.

"Athos," D'Artagnan cried. "Athos? He's not dead. He's not dead! You're lying-please let me see-"

Athos tried to hold D'Artagnan down by his shoulders to keep him from reopening the wound. "I'm right here, you foolish boy-"

But he continued to struggle. "Let me see-! Father, let me see him! Please…father? Help me-"

"You're all right," Athos whispered. "Calm down-"

"No," the boy moaned. "Forgive me! I didn't know-I'm sorry-I'm a terrible friend!"

Athos grabbed D'Artagnan sharply and held him still. "Hush, boy! You're nothing of the kind. Now, _rest. _Quiet."

Exhaustion, it seemed, was a good ally to have after all. D'Artagnan was simply too tired to continue his protests and fell victim once more to his body's needs. In the wake of that round Athos was left with frayed nerves. He readjusted the blankets around the boy and rose to pace the length of the room.

What was the source of all those horrible words? Was it the fever? Or was it something he had said. He hoped to God he never gave D'Artagnan that impression that he wasn't good enough-and that thought stopped him short. What was he doing? That boy was worth a hundred of himself. D'Artagnan didn't deserve _friends_ like Athos, not if Athos was the cause of all those dark and terrible twisted dreams that continued to plague them both. He'd never meant it. None of it. It was all in efforts to keep the boy from stealing what had been stolen from him before. No, D'Artagnan was not the stealing kind. He was more noble, respectful, and good-natured than her. But did that make Athos an open door? Did that make his heart free for the taking?

A soft noise behind him caused Athos to turn.

His eyes narrowed at the sight and Athos approached the quivering little shadow by the fireplace with caution, ready to stomp on it should it turn out to be a rat. But he had no need to use the heel of his boot, at least not yet. With furrowed brows he reached down and picked the weak creature up by the scruff of its neck and in better light saw that it was a small gold and brown kitten. It made a soft meow with eyes half-closed. The more Athos looked at it the more it looked back at him. He wasn't entirely sure what to do with it at first. It could have been mad with disease, not just hungry and in desperate need of warmth. It could be waiting for him to show it kindness before it pulled its claws out and did the real damage.

But, he realized, with the thing's tail between its legs it couldn't be thinking up any diabolical plan any time soon. So Athos set the creature down on his arm and just held it to see what its next move would be. Under his hand it started purring and the quivering lessened. The kitten shook and burrowed deeper into the offered warmth, poking its head up to look around. Just as Athos was beginning to wonder where the thing came from it sprung out of his arms and onto the bed, going right up to D'Artagnan's face.

"You little-! Get away from there!"

The kitten turned and hissed as his hand approached.

Athos would have thrown the miserable creature out into the snow if it hadn't gone over to gently lick the side of D'Artagnan's face and settle into a purring ball near his head. The kitten looked up with a dark look that dared Athos to try and move him. Athos stood, not entirely convinced that the creature was not a threat, but then it began to nuzzle D'Artagnan's cheek. The boy muttered in his sleep and turned towards the comfort.

"Ajax…"

Athos stilled and watched as the kitten's ears perked up and meowed softly in reply. Cautiously, he sat back down in his chair by the boy's bedside and regarded the scrawny little kitten that was sticking its tongue in and out as if it were thirsty. When it caught sight of the cup of water on the bedside table it rose and started over to it but Athos reached it first. The kitten backed up and made a low sound in its throat, preparing to return to the pillow near the boy's head. But Athos held the cup out and tilted it so the water was easily accessible. The kitten eyed him and approached with caution and ears folding back and forth, as if indecisive about Athos' intentions. But eventually its needs won out and it lapped at the liquid with fervor.

Athos looked over to D'Artagnan again, to see any further sign of him waking but nothing had changed. He sighed and looked back to see if the kitten had finished. He found it poking its nose around his hand, then proceeding to rub its mouth, or rather the side of its mouth, against his hand, purring louder. Knowing what the creature was up to, he pulled away and put the cup back.

"Enough of that," he warned. The last thing he needed was a feline following him around like a shadow after marking its territory. The mere idea of being followed seemed so absurd to him.

The kitten stared at him before settling back into his claimed spot by D'Artagnan's head, curling itself into a ball and going right to sleep. Athos watched over the two the rest of the night, begrudgingly admitting that it was some small comfort to not have to face the night alone with the boy anymore.

* * *

When that morning failed to bring any reprieve from the fever, Treville successfully extricated his surgeon from his other duties to check on D'Artagnan's condition. It irritated, and borderline angered, Athos that the man hadn't come when they called. He was ready to drag the man down to D'Artagnan's room himself when they received word, not ten minutes after sending someone to Treville with news of the boy's condition, of what was being done. While they waited outside the room, on the captain's express threats no less, Athos paced to relieve the rising tension in his chest.

Nothing helped. He'd been a ball of tension since yesterday, since the day before that, oh hell-from the moment the boy took that bullet for him. He was tired of waiting. He was tired of the looks. He was tired of hearing no hope. So when the physician came out of the room, just as cold as ever, it wasn't really that much of a surprise what happened next.

"He's lost too much blood to fight off the infection. If he's not dead by midnight he will be by morning. There's nothing more I can do-"

Grabbing the surgeon around the neck and shoving him against a wall wasn't supposed to be satisfying. Wasn't it the squirming and the visible fear that lesser people than him enjoyed? Did he enjoy the feel of this heartless man at his mercy? A small part of him whispered yes and grew stronger by the second, bursting into a monster of insensibility with that one little admission.

"Like hell there isn't you worthless coward!-" he seethed, inches from the surgeon's face. He barely finished his knife-like insult before he felt hands on him. He expected them to belong to Porthos but was slightly surprised to find that they belonged to Monsieur de Treville.

"Athos! Let him go-_now_," Treville shouted, pulling him free with nothing short of brute strength.

Though a good part of him raged at the injustice of being denied what the lesser part wanted, his better half gasped in relief. And when he was the one shoved up against the opposite wall, at the mercy of his captain's hands, he came back to himself and realized what he had done. That traitorous energy still hummed throughout his body. Perhaps the shaking came from the after-effects of his own anger. Perhaps it came from a different source he was unwilling to acknowledge.

"What do you want to hear," the physician shouted. It took both Aramis and Porthos to hold the man back but Athos didn't have eyes for his friends, just the fiend that dared speak to him as if he were a simple-minded idiot. "Do you want me to tell you that he'll live? That he'll wake tomorrow with no lasting effect from a wound that by all means of mercy in this world should have killed him?"

"You speak of mercy as if it's something you know! Mercy is more than letting men die or easing their pain. It's giving those dying men another chance to breathe. It's giving them the slightest bit of hope-"

"I am trying to do you and this company a mercy by giving you _no_ hope! That boy is going to die but you and your companions are too cruel to let him!"

"If that's your understanding of mercy then you may as well have pulled the trigger yourself!"

"At least under my hand it would have saved him this agony of living!"

Before he could even attempt to lunge at the devil Treville pushed him down the hallway. "Enough," he roared. "Athos, take a walk! _Now._"

Athos obeyed only for the sake of what decorum he had left to salvage for himself and stalked the edges of the camps for the security of what privacy one could still have on the battlefield. He sat for a long time, glaring at the snow and turning his hate on the bare trees. Guardsmen gave him a wide berth and didn't even say a single word to each other about Athos' presence. He supposed his clenched fists and crossed arms said enough. It said something of the understanding he had with Aramis and Porthos that neither came looking for him. And he was grateful for it. His moods seldom rose to such violent outbursts, but when they did he usually had the least bit of control to lock himself away before he dealt any person or thing any permanent kind of damage.

Usually.

Athos hadn't felt such a loss of control in a long time.

Instances like this once made him believe, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the lonely road he had chosen for himself was the right one. He was fortunate to still have Porthos and Aramis by his side, and that should have given him some kind of hope over the years, but after what happened a week ago…

Had it only been a week?

Athos rubbed at his tired face and tried harder to ignore the cold settling into his body. Perhaps…no, he had known with certainty from the very beginning that allowing D'Artagnan to enter into their lives so easily had been a bad idea. That was the truth he had believed, and now it only proved to add further fuel to that initial reluctance. Look at where all that bother and care left them all-stripped bare and raw and just…deserted with no normalcy to fall back on anymore.

He hated that boy.

* * *

Porthos found Aramis with an old book in his hands that wasn't his bible. It was a book he'd seen many times before, and even stolen on one occasion early on in their friendship when the young priest wasn't entirely forthcoming with its identity. He fully expected a lecture when he had been caught, but all he received was a withering glare and answers to all the questions he had been pestering his new friend with for weeks. The truth wasn't all that comforting, and Porthos would be a liar if he didn't admit that it was more than a little horrifying.

Reading the words that he would hear one day at the end of his life chilled him for weeks afterwards, and in the crux of a summer heat wave, too! That day in particular was one of the days he cursed his noble upbringing and the lessons he's been forced to endure as a boy. Knowledge, he thought, wasn't always a comfort. And it certainly wasn't one now. "I never meant it," he said to Aramis. "When I said that he'd be dead by sundown. The lad has a good head on his shoulders. "

"And a better heart," Aramis replied, still fingering the worn binding of the book. "Though it fails him now."

Porthos shivered from the wind that came in so easily through the shoddy windows and wondered how his thinner friend could stand their rooms. "If I hadn't said it we never would have gotten him through the front door."

Aramis smirked. "Or past Athos."

"That's what I meant. He has a good soul."

"Too good for us. Scarred, flawed, stained with other men's blood. It ages you."

Porthos looked down again and noticed the wooden beads of a rosary peeking out from Aramis' long white fingers. "What were you praying for?"

The former priest shrugged. "What any man foolishly hopes for; a miracle."

He scoffed without meaning to. "Is there such a thing?"

Aramis shook his head. "I honestly don't know. Why do we dream if not for the possibility that they may one day be real?"

"Torture," he guessed, spitting a foul taste out of his mouth.

"…perhaps."

"And you still hope?"

Finally, Aramis turned to him, looking far older than his years. "Do you?"

"God help me but I do," Porthos sighed. "Milady was bad but this…He cares for that boy. If D'Artagnan dies it's going to kill him, Aramis."

"Maybe it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. Maybe Athos' reluctance about D'Artagnan wasn't all that unfounded in the first place."

"It was always a matter of time with any of us. And look, here we are after…what's the count again?"

Aramis raised an eyebrow. "You can still keep track?"

"No, I left that bookkeeping up to you."

"Too many," he said with a sad smile.

Porthos shifted his weight and crossed to sit next to Aramis. "You're much calmer about this than I thought you'd be."

"Am I? You seem so yourself."

It was Porthos' turn to shake his head. Funny how it could suddenly feel so heavy. "I'm not."

When Aramis spoke, Porthos finally heard the one thing he thought he heard upon first entering the room. He thought he had been mistaken before, but now he was dead certain. Aramis had been weeping. "Then how can anyone be?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five – Blackened be the Helme (Pt. 3)**

When Athos returned to the infirmary that night with bloody knuckles and a sore hand Treville was waiting for him, seated calmly by D'Artagnan's bedside. "What did he say," Treville asked, quietly and without turning his head.

Perhaps Athos should have expected this, and maybe some small part of him did and remained silent to ensure he would return after what happened this morning. Though the memory was only a few hours old, his blood boiled as if he were still standing in that moment, next to a man that D'Artagnan had been forced to answer to. The words still rung in his ears like knives on glass…_danger seeking, pride-driven, little shit. He got what he deserves for getting those two boys killed._

And that wasn't even the worst of it.

"_Go on. Regale us with more about the Captain's beloved pet. He weaseled his way into our ranks because his father was a good friend of Treville's and I'll be eager for the day he gets thrown out so we don't have to protect a helpless country-bred idiot whose ego outweighs his worth. Maybe he'll finally do those sick men he lies next to a favor and die so Essarts doesn't have to put up with his insubordination any longer-"_

That was as far as the young Sergeant got before Athos grabbed him and punched him squarely across the face. The young man went down like a sack of flour with a dull thud, and though Athos had prepared himself for the immediate retaliation (as was expected from the loyalty young recruits held for their superior officers) he was not surprised to find none of the recruits move to their sergeant's aide. He hadn't feared for D'Artagnan's reputation among his peers. Those who were true enough would know better than to believe such filth. And the lack of reaction proved that the boy was, in fact, adjusting to the life he had chosen for himself.

So why did he do it? In the hours following the incident that he spent brooding over his actions he supposed he did it more for the loyalty D'Artagnan had always unquestioningly shown him. But some nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that wasn't all of it. Athos looked up at the ceiling and stayed within the doorway to get a better sense for what mood his captain was in. "He? Who would you be speaking of, Monsieur?"

Treville turned to Athos and glared. "The boy you struck. When I sent you out this morning I did not do so with the intent to see you transfer that anger onto someone else-"

"That _boy_ was slandering D'Artagnan's name and reputation among his own ranks," Athos hissed, stepping forward into the room. "_With_ the knowledge that he couldn't defend himself! That is not behavior befitting an officer, let alone a leader of young men who dream one day of being one themselves."

"If that is true," Treville replied, calmly. "Then Sergeant Ancel will be properly punished for it. Now, will you kindly tell me _what _he said to warrant such a thrashing from you, Athos?"

It more than irked him to repeat that vile speech but he did, verbatim.

Treville's expression darkened and he did not speak for a few moments. "I will speak with Monsieur des Essarts. Do you trust me to ensure he will be properly dealt with?"

"…yes, Monsieur," Athos answered, somewhat satisfied.

"And next time I can trust you will leave the disciplining of these men to their proper _superiors_, Essarts and myself, yes?"

Athos nodded.

"Good," Treville said, rising and crossing to him. "And you also realize that you must bear punishment in this as well? We're not commanding a group of orderless vigilantes in this endeavor out here and I will be damned if we are reduced to such an unacceptable disgrace. We fight in and for the name of His Majesty and France, not Providence. We leave that business to the Cardinal."

Athos hid a wince and strove to remain impassive. "Yes, Monsieur. I do realize that. And I would apologize for my actions only in usurping your authority."

Treville's eyes narrowed in a cold but familiar calculating way. "…accepted."

Athos eyed what was quickly becoming _his_ seat by D'Artagnan's bedside that others only shared or borrowed. Nothing had changed. That was not surprising. It was tiring. Tiring and exhausting. But what awaited him was his just sentence.

"I'm surprised you only hit him once for that," Treville whispered.

"Sometimes temptations alone are enough retribution," Athos replied, moving to take up his dreaded and maddening seat yet again.

Treville grasped his shoulder and stopped him to lean close. "You would do well to remember that, because that is why I count you among my best, Athos."

Athos didn't look as Treville released him and left the room. His eyes never strayed from D'Artagnan's still and pale body. Nothing had really changed. Had he hoped it would if he beat the words from some poor man's lips? Athos sighed and crossed to his familiar spot and sank down into it, feeling at least ten years older. He didn't hate D'Artagnan. He would never admit it out loud, but hate wasn't the right word. Another, more treacherous and devious word, was the culprit.

When Aramis entered the room a few hours later into the night, Athos was still weary under the weight of that unspoken realization. He didn't even let his friend get two paces into the room. "Go away," he droned.

"Athos, please," Aramis started. "All I want is for you to listen."

"Speak then. I won't stop you."

"But will you listen?"

"No."

Aramis sighed, and Athos hoped the priest would tire of pestering him and finally leave him be. But footsteps approached, accompanied unfortunately by his insufferable friend. Aramis took his hand and turned it towards the light to inspect the broken inflamed skin. Without a word Aramis retrieved a fresh cloth and some clean water and set about cleaning the bloody knuckles. "What did you do? And to whom?"

"You're a bad liar, Aramis."

"Was he worth it?"

"I'd do it again if that boy dared to show his face to me."

"You have to know men are talking about it," Aramis commented. "About you."

"Let them," Athos scoffed. "I care not for their regards to me. What do they say of the boy?"

"They hope he lives. Many of the older men know of him by name, but most only learned of him by what he did, for you…It was a noble sacrifice-"

"Aramis," Athos warned.

"How much longer do you truly think he has, Athos?"

Athos refused to look at Aramis and pulled his hand away roughly. "A lifetime."

"And if you're wrong?"

"I'm not."

"His fever won't break."

"It will."

"He's doesn't even know we're here!"

"He knows I'm here," Athos growled. "He knows you're here. He knows that damn cat is here. That's why he's not dead. And unless you want to be intimately more acquainted with its doorstep I suggest you either get yourself and that damned book out of my sight or watch me burn it and prepare yourself for a duel."

For a moment it appeared as if he had finally won, but Aramis picked his head back up. "You don't think Treville's surgeon might have been right about at least one thing? About the fact that we may be…torturing D'Artagnan this way? If his body is too weak-"

Now, Athos did grace Aramis with his eyes, but they were hard and cold. "_Don't_ sit there and tell me that D'Artagnan wouldn't fight for you until his dying breath if your positions were switched!"

To his credit, Aramis remained calm and accepted the accusation. "I have no doubt that he would, but Athos he's young. He hasn't lived through half the things we have."

"And that makes him less deserving of all the years you think he'll never have?"

Aramis shook his head but remained silent.

Athos looked at him and noted all the features of exhaustion that were probably a dull mirror of his own. It deflated the brunt of his anger, but it didn't extinguish his curiosity. "Was it your lack of faith that made you quit the Jesuits?"

Aramis looked up, and though it surprised Athos to see the man glare at him, he couldn't help but feel satisfied by it. Rarely had he been privy to the darker side of their saintly friend, and though he never pried-for that was Porthos' occupation-he had always wondered. It wasn't a direct answer, but it was something. "No," the former priest said. "But every man who has faith knows doubt."

Aramis left him alone after that. For how long he would remain alone, Athos did not know. As the night wore on, D'Artagnan's fever continued. And the delirium still lauded its hold over him.

"Athos…Athos…Athos," the boy continuously mumbled.

"I'm right here," he answered, grabbing for the boy's cold hand. "D'Artagnan?" He didn't know how many times he called the boy's name. All he wanted was one look, one gesture that he was still with him and would remain with him until the fever passed. But he received nothing. A sharp spike of fear raced through him and brought that unspeakable possibility to the surface again. He'd denied it for so long that to finally listen to its pleadings made everything too real for him to accept. So Athos latched onto the boy's face and turned it towards him, desperation possessing his limbs.

"Look at me," he said. "Where is all that youth and strength you threw in our faces when we first met? Hm? You danced circles around us as if we were old men. Do it again. I need you to do it again. Show them wrong and prove me right. Don't you _dare_ make a liar out of me! If you do…I swear to all that is holy that hell will seem like heaven after I'm through with you."

It was a stupid thing to say, but Athos was beyond caring for the weight of stupid words. Without them, all he had was the unknown between him and the boy. With them he could at least pretend that he was heard. Was it pretending? Was that what he had been reduced to in the course of one week? D'Artagnan shivered and his eyes fluttered. He tried to move but a soft sound stuck in his throat drew Athos back and chilled him with the thought that this could be the last time that he…

"Don't," he whispered to his young friend, his dear friend.

_Please._

* * *

"Will you blame me for his death?"

Treville looked up from his desk in the pre-dawn hours and found Theo, his physician, standing at the door. Treville sighed and pushed back from the mounds of reports to have a good look at the man. The captain was at a loss for understanding how men like Theo did what they did day after day in situations like this, on the battlefield. But the physician was far from invincible, and the stress was starting to show on him. Theo had a penchant for not sleeping or eating which had landed him in trouble with Treville on previous engagements. Now, he suspected no different, but didn't have the strength in him to deliver the proper reprimand.

"That outcome is yet to be seen," Treville replied. "I would not be so hasty to-"

"Jean," Theo said, softly. "He won't live. I've done all I can."

"I know you have, my friend."

"His chances are too small. It's a miracle he's survived this long and if you're looking for some silver lining in all this, then count that. Don't hope for more."

Treville rose and crossed to the door, putting both hands on Theo's shoulders. "Our natures are different. They always have been. You cannot fault me for not giving in to hopelessness."

"And you cannot fault me for having no room for its opposite," Theo replied, swallowing hard. "As much as men like me need it."

"You get the job done quicker than the most knowledgeable surgeons I've met, in France and beyond her borders. Some men find use of hope and some don't. I have never doubted your capability because of your nature."

"It's how I work," the physician shook his head tiredly.

"It's how you work," Treville agreed. "And perhaps your bedside manner would improve with food and rest?"

Theo frowned. "Monsieur-"

"Theo."

"Jean," the physician sighed. "Perhaps."

"Then sit and have an early breakfast with me. You can give me those medical reports you have behind your back as well."

Without a word, and with some eye rolling, Theo handed the reports over and sulked in a chair by the fire, rubbing his hands over his eyes until Treville forcibly shoved a bread roll and some tea under his nose. As time went by the surly physician relaxed, and Treville was pleased to find him napping in his chair as he himself was perusing the sick and casualty lists. Outside the storm was finally starting to abate, and the howling wind was dying down to a whisper.

"For the record," Theo said, with sleep still pulling at him. "I hope I'm wrong."

* * *

Athos was good at hiding, and in more ways than one. But where Porthos was willing to let him be until he wanted to return, Aramis was not one for idling. It had taken him more than a few occasions to learn when to leave Athos alone and when to intervene at his own risk. Interfering was not something he liked to do, but when it became a matter of preventing further harm it was a necessary evil that he considered an obligation.

Aramis trekked out in the freshly fallen snow to the edge of camp, leaving knee-deep trails behind in some spots. There was no trail to follow, but he knew from instinct alone where Athos was likely to be, whether he covered his trail or not. A certain book weighed in his pocket, almost dragging his feet down with each closer step he took to his goal. Aramis was anything but a cynic, but at this point he truly feared that D'Artagnan might slip away from them without receiving some last aide they could give his soul. Not that it would have mattered, for in his mind D'Artagnan was nothing but an innocent even at his age. It stood on principle that Aramis was called to do it, for there was no one else within miles who could.

They owed it to D'Artagnan to do whatever could be done. This wasn't something to be taken lightly, because not only did the soul of their dying friend hang in the balance but the sanity of another friend did as well. Denial would consume Athos and would likely banish him to a place neither Aramis nor Porthos could rescue him from this time. If Aramis were honest with himself, that frightened him more than anything.

Aramis looked up toward the tree line and spotted Athos with his back to the rest of the camp. He was a dark immoveable silhouette against the blinding dawn, and for a moment the sight almost made Aramis turn around. But the name was already on his lips before he could. "Athos…"

His friend didn't turn, and Aramis hadn't expected him to. He was looking at the mouth of the valley where D'Artagnan had fallen for him. Though there was nothing of the previous battle to be seen, underneath it all lay a patch of blood that could never be washed away. Aramis took a deep breath and closed the distance between them. Athos still hadn't answered him.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six – Out of the Crucible**

In the past, sleepless nights for Porthos meant one thing, the ire of a woman. As the years went on the reasons expanded. Exhaustion. Injury. Hunger. An empty change purse. Tree roots sticking in his back on a night spent outdoors. Now he had a new addition to that list.

Friendship.

For years he had known worry and concern for Athos and Aramis, but it wasn't until D'Artagnan that he felt such a strong sense of responsibility. He had been so eager to take the boy under their wings, to have some vigor, some real spirit amongst them again that he essentially glossed over a very important factor. D'Artagnan, despite all his efforts to appear otherwise, was still a young boy.

Porthos enjoyed the times D'Artagnan would silently look to him, Aramis, and even Athos for a lead, for advice, for a kind word, for anything. Porthos hadn't had the luxury of having brothers growing up. Being the only man other than his father in a household of women had certainly given him a different outlook on things, but it was thanks to Athos that he knew something of what having brothers would have been like. Cousins they were by blood, but by all else they were what each other never had.

Aramis reminded him of the downsides of having brothers, sensible ones who put duty ahead of fun. Porthos smirked to himself at how long that lasted before Aramis came to his senses and saw reason. There were countless memories that they all held dear in their hearts, as badges of their trust and loyalty to what they had built with one another. It seemed wrong somehow that there were so few with D'Artagnan.

Because he wanted more.

He wanted another chance.

He wanted more time.

Porthos had long abandoned the chair by the bedside of a friend he didn't want to say goodbye to. He had no doubt the sight of that pale shivering boy would haunt him for the rest of his days, so what was the use in committing more sadness to memory? He didn't look up from the fire when Monsieur de Treville entered the room and not even when his captain came to lean beside him against the mantle. When Treville sighed and put his head in his hand Porthos did look up, and for the first time he saw how old the man looked.

What had happened to the days they had their captain running after them, sword in hand, for discipline? What had happened to the times when they inwardly shook in their boots under the mere glares of their superior, when the lack of words was punishment enough? Seeing him so openly listless and lost like this made that other man seem false somehow. Sometimes ignorance really was bliss.

"I received a letter from Bertrand only a few days ago," Treville whispered. "I don't know how many letters I've written to these parents, telling them their sons died honorably. Some consider it an honor to receive such a letter, even if they can't have a body returned to them to bury. A letter for Bertrand's only son would be nothing short of an insult. He'd probably saddle his horse and ride day and night until he could hear the words from my own lips."

Porthos didn't know what to say, though he would have agreed with the latter part from only what he had heard of D'Artagnan's father in stories.

Treville sighed and straightened himself before crossing to D'Artagnan's bedside. Porthos remained stubborn, and kept his back turned. It was childish, but didn't grief make children out of them all? Did men ever grow out of being children? Of fearing their own emotional capacity and mortality? Life was too fragile.

And short.

"Porthos…"

He turned when his captain called, expecting to find hard-set resignation, but instead he found stunned disbelief.

"Find my surgeon," the captain said, waving his arm dismissive and quick.

Porthos frowned. "Monsieur?"

"_Find him_, now. The boy's fever broke."

Porthos could hardly believe his ears. He crossed the room in two strides and bent down to bear witness of it himself. Sure enough the boy was drenched in sweat, almost as if someone had come along and poured a bucket of water over him. And his color had vastly improved. Treville snatched a cloth from the beside and soaked it in cool water before he started bathing D'Artagnan's face and neck clean. As he did, D'Artagnan started to stir, moaning in protest under the smallest of movements he tried to make on his own.

Porthos couldn't stop shaking his head because until this point it had all seemed for naught that the boy would even regain consciousness. "But that's…"

And then something wonderful happened. D'Artagnan's eyes fluttered open, struggling to focus on the ceiling above him. The improbability of it all made this moment feel like a sucker-punch to the gut of hope. The boy was coming back to them. "He _is _waking up," Porthos gasped.

"D'Artagnan," Treville addressed, leaning down.

The boy looked at them both, and like a slow-rising dawn his eyes started to shine with lucidity. "Wht? Hve-I dne smthng?"

Porthos did the only thing he could do, laugh. And if tears came to his eyes it was only because he was overjoyed with relief and not from preparation for the other grim alternative. "You certainly have, lad!"

* * *

Porthos attempted to embrace D'Artagnan, but Treville held him back under the real threat of further bodily injury, even from a harmless show of affection and worry. Instead, Treville took the man by the shoulders and steered him toward the door. Porthos allowed it and came back to himself once he was out in the hallway. "I need to find-"

"Go," Treville ordered, pointing in direction of the rest of the camp. "The surgeon first, Athos and Aramis after."

The man, thankfully, needed no second bidding. Once Porthos was gone, and quicker than Treville had ever seen him, the captain returned to D'Artagnan's bedside and resumed his task of cleaning the sickness away from the boy he had feared to lose. He wondered if that made him less fit for his position, to think of D'Artagnan above his other recruits in these precious moments of reborn hope, because in truth D'Artagnan had been the only one haunting his thoughts for the past week.

He could have easily adopted this position with any of the other boys who had died and suffered wounds just as bad over the years. And God knew he'd been tempted to so many times. In the past he used duty as a shield to move on, or to hide like a coward from the lesser part of himself. What allowed him to take this privilege now was the obligation he felt in his heart for the son of a dear friend and brother in all things but blood. Treville had feared what the death of Bertrand's son would do to the poor man should it ever come to pass. It was why he had been reluctant to admit the boy into the guard at first, let alone his coming introduction into the musketeers.

This past week had brought those fears to fruition and settled a heavy weight on his chest that refused to leave, until a few moments ago.

"Mnsur," the boy croaked, descending into a coughing fit.

Treville set the warm cloth aside and reached for a glass of clean water. He tilted the boy's head up and put the glass to his lips with firm instructions. "Drink this, slowly."

Once the boy was done his voice was still raspy from disuse, but it was much clearer. "Thank you," D'Artagnan sighed.

"How are you feeling?"

D'Artagnan took a few breaths and took stock of himself with a creased forehead of incomprehension. "Better, I think. Have I been sick?"

"You nearly died. Twice at that. You haven't been lucid since the surgery."

"What happened?"

The captain sighed and rung out the wet cloth in the bowl. "Well, you did something incredibly foolish and stupidly brave for someone your age. Surely you remember taking that bullet for Athos?"

D'Artagnan was silent for a while, leaning back in thought. And then the memory came back to the boy and he looked around the room in astonishment, turning to Treville with disbelief, as if asking him if he wasn't dreaming. "I did," D'Artagnan breathed. "I didn't think…"

"No," Treville admonished, quietly with a soft slap to the cheek. "You didn't think."

"But where-" The boy stopped short and a faint look of confusion and disgust crossed his tired and worn face.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm…damp all over," he admitted in an embarrassed whisper.

Treville smiled. "That's because your fever broke. Some didn't think it ever would. Let's get you into some dry clothes."

"But-" D'Artagnan started to protest.

Ah, youth. Treville was sorely tempted to roll his eyes at the clear indication that D'Artagnan was quickly returning to his proud and brave self. It reminded him so much of Bertrand in that moment that he wanted to do the same thing he had done to the boy's father under similar circumstances; smack him upside the head for his stupidity. Rank be damned, he was determined to ignore his station for a little while longer-even if he had to make momentary use of it to silence those notions of superiority.

Treville raised an eyebrow and leveled a strong but withering gaze on the boy that brokered no argument. "Need I give you an order so soon after you return from the dead to obey my wishes?"

"No, sir," the boy sheepishly replied. "I just don't have the energy to do it myself."

"And do you think me a stranger to the sick after all my years? I may have no children of my own to attest to, but I did not earn this rank from paperwork alone. Besides, your father gave me plenty of practice in our youth. And I myself have been in your condition too many times to count so put away that pride of yours, boy. You'll need a lot of patience in the coming days. You won't spring back from this like you would a cold."

D'Artagnan promptly shut himself up after that and let the captain help change him out of his old dirty clothes.

His thanks, joy, and relief all lay in the steadiness and support his hands gave to the weak body beneath him. If his eyes hadn't told him differently, Treville would have thought it was a small child he was holding, uncoordinated with newfound life. Was this what Bertrand had spoken of when D'Artagnan was born? The sudden and inevitable terror of fatherhood? When you started caring for another smaller life? It stopped him short more than a couple of times, but he was still as headstrong as he'd been on such matters when he was young, even when faced with temptations along the way of another life away from blood and duty, as Bertrand had been. He never regretted his decisions to turn away from those opportunities, not until recently.

It was a painstaking task he had undertaken but they made it through, slowing and stopping when moving became too painful and when D'Artagnan needed to catch his breath. Unsurprisingly, D'Artagnan was worn out once everything was changed. The boy barely had enough strength to lift an arm, let alone change into a dry set of clothes on his own. And that gave Treville more confidence that he had made the right decision in not pulling an attendant aside from his duties to help them. The less time the boy spent in damp clothes after an infection and a mending bullet wound the better. And that was the deciding thought that settled in his mind before he tossed the old clothes into the fire to burn.

Better that no one else get sick by the merest touch of them, he thought.

Treville had just replaced the blankets when Aramis and Porthos burst into the room. Somehow he had enough time to hold up a hand and cast a warning look to calm them both. It was expected after all; Porthos had never done well with giving news, good or ill. Treville left D'Artagnan's bedside and let the two men approach, sighing and wondering to himself when he would stop feeling like a surrogate father of three…rather four overgrown boys.

"D'Artagnan," Aramis asked, grabbing the boy's hand as if it were a fragile lifeline.

D'Artagnan struggled to stay awake, but he smiled when he saw Aramis and Porthos leaning over his bed to see him. "Aramis. Porthos…What's wrong?"

"We thought…" Aramis faltered, as if something were stuck in his throat that he couldn't swallow past. "No, it doesn't matter. You're getting better. It's more than what anyone dared hope for."

"And it's about damn time," Porthos grumbled, swiping at his eyes and pretending no one was looking. "You're lucky to be alive, lad."

"Don't feel lucky," D'Artagnan mumbled, eyes fluttering shut.

"It's alright. Rest. You'll feel better when you wake up again."

"Where's…Athos…?"

Before Treville could inquire the same thing, the man in question entered the room without looking at anyone other than D'Artagnan, crossing over in long strides and coming up short. He knelt down when Aramis moved and grasped the boy's hand as reverently as Aramis had done. "I'm right here," he said, softly.

Treville narrowed his eyes as he looked on from the sideline. D'Artagnan was too weak to reply, but the relief and happiness evident on his face was enough. The gentleness Athos showed the boy surprised him. Open concern? No cynical words laced with displeasure? An intimate closeness he had only seen before when Porthos or Aramis lay in D'Artagnan's position? All of this from Athos? _Their_ Athos? Even when Aramis or Porthos had been sick or injured, Athos had never acted so personally attentive. Athos had been the one shouting for a physician, not taking cares and pains into his own hands.

Treville suspected Athos cared for D'Artagnan, but he had chalked it up to his imagination under the fact that the boy had been lodging with his new friends for only a few months time. Some small part of him had hoped for a change, that the boy would help temper Athos and properly ground all of them where he felt he could not-even as their superior. And in this tender moment, he had proved himself right. It was no miracle that Treville was witnessing, but he saw the beginnings of trust and love start to come back to his men-his boys-because he had practically raised them and fostered them in the corps when they had no one else to look up to at D'Artagnan's age. And it comforted him deeper than any previous instance he could recall from memory.

When D'Artagnan had fallen asleep again Treville forcibly removed Aramis and Porthos from the room for morning duties and pulled Athos aside to give him the punishment he'd been ruminating over for his offenses the previous day. "You'll stay here with the boy until he's on his feet. You're relieved of all duties otherwise. No more running away."

Athos didn't have anything to say in reply, so he yielded with a nod of his head and downcast eyes. Before Treville left he indulged an affectionate show of his own, by tilting Athos' head up with his finger like he had done when he was D'Artagnan's age. The man looked up in surprise at the rare show of affection, and didn't shy away like he used to after a certain age. He held Treville's gaze with thinly disguised caution and a number of other things that showed his captain just how close to the brink he had been, again.

"You fought for him, Athos," Treville said. "Don't abandon him again."

* * *

Aramis and Porthos hadn't stayed away for long. Before Athos could return with his effects from where he'd been lodging he heard Aramis talking to the boy in the other room. He dropped his things and allowed himself a moment to breathe in the cold stone hallway of the old fort they had rebuilt. A chill went right through him, but it took Athos a second to realize it hadn't come from the cold. It came from the overwhelming amount of relief that D'Artagnan would indeed live. Maybe it was a little premature, but the fact that the fever broke, that he hadn't died of blood loss, that the bullet hadn't broken through and done more damage said a great deal of things about D'Artagnan that couldn't be said of many men.

"_The fever is gone. D'Artagnan's waking!"_

Athos closed his eyes and could still feel the thrill of that moment. Hours had passed between now and then, but it didn't feel so long. Aramis had begged him to give up, for D'Artagnan's sake and for his own. And the worst part of it all was that he had listened to him. The practical and cynical part of himself had finally started to take over and the words had been on the edge of his cold lips when Porthos interrupted them.

"_What," Aramis whispered. _

_Porthos came and shook the former priest out of his stupor. Then he went to take Athos into his arms, but Athos held a hand out to stop him. "Go on," he said. _

"_But, Athos-"_

"_Go, Porthos," he whispered._

_Reluctantly, the two had left him alone with hopes and threats that Athos _would_ follow them shortly. And he would. As soon as he regained the strength in his legs. When they had gone he moved in front of the tree he was leaning against and tried to take a breath before he fell to his knees. He trembled. He clenched his eyes shut. He closed his hands into fists of stone. It was too much all at once. But it was truth, wasn't it? He gasped as a strong gust of wind suddenly whipped at his face and blew his cloak wide open. Not a second later he was on his feet. Running. _

Athos peeked into the room and spied Aramis sitting on the edge of D'Artagnan's bed with a bowl of what looked like some kind of meat-rich stew.

It was fortunate that they had continued their way digging the roads out. Waiting on the other side was a wagon of desperately needed supplies and reinforcements they had expected over a week ago. It was no feast to celebrate, but it was enough to satisfy the men and properly feed the sick. It was a much needed and awaited blessing. And they were lucky they got to it first. With La Rochelle besieged and deprived as it was, it wouldn't have surprised many to come across a band of desperate rebels seeking out the same needs. But unconfirmed rumors of sickness had spread, and many thought it wouldn't be long before a surrender was issued. Hell, the sooner they could leave this place the better.

Athos frowned when he saw D'Artagnan turn aside and make a face, because it wasn't one of pain.

"What's wrong," Aramis asked. "Are you feeling sick?"

"This is humiliating," the boy whispered.

Athos resisted the strong urge to roll his eyes. Typical. The boy had just cheated death and he was worried about appearing anything but strong and dependable as if nothing had happened. Aramis and Porthos knew how much of a pain in the ass Athos could be when he was injured or sick and God help them all whenever Porthos caught a cold, but D'Artagnan at the mercy of his own weaknesses was something else entirely. And Athos didn't like it one bit.

So he pushed the door open with a lazy hand and fixed the boy with a strong look that was meant to dispel any of those stupid notions of foolish insecurity. "Would you rather spill it all over your clothes trying to do it yourself," Athos said with a healthy dose of sarcasm that dripped down like melting snow. "Relax, boy. We don't think any less of you for it. We've all suffered something similar."

Aramis cleared his throat and flashed Athos a warning glance before returning his attentions to D'Artagnan. "Athos is right. Frankly, I'm amazed you're strong enough to be sitting up."

The boy winced as he tried to reposition himself, but he didn't manage any change and had to stop, huffing in annoyance. And fatigue. "I've never been this weak before."

Athos dropped his things and before the boy could protest he slipped his hands under D'Artagnan's arms and pulled him up into a better position against the pillows. When D'Artagnan looked up at him in surprise Athos just cleared his throat and went to make up the spare bed a few feet away.

"It will pass," Aramis soothed. "Just as I keep telling you. Now, stop worrying about it and finish your stew. You won't regain your strength otherwise. Being hungry is a good sign."

It wasn't without a small pout in his defense that D'Artagnan gave in and finished the rest of his stew. There was no further argument to be had on the matter because the boy couldn't afford to lean on his pride anymore. He needed to rebuild strength in his blood and gain some desperately needed weight. It was worse looking at him while he slept, and D'Artagnan slept most of the day and night. When he was awake they practically had to shovel food into his mouth before he fell asleep again. Sometimes they had to wake him, but that wasn't often, only when the physician dared to enter the room with an attendant and poke and prod the boy endlessly.

Athos smirked under the satisfaction that the man never came by himself and never looked Athos in the eye.

The man was by no means skittish. Hell, the physician was more than a few years Athos' senior and had seen horrors a hundred times over that one man could never possibly see in one lifetime otherwise. But maybe it wasn't Athos at all that bothered the man. What Athos hoped was the issue was that the surgeon would never make another mistake like he almost had with D'Artagnan again. Cynicism and practicality dictated field surgeons to consolidate in battles and wars. And oftentimes that meant letting men die needlessly. Just as that man was ready to let D'Artagnan die, by saving him Athos didn't want to know who had to die in the boy's place. If that meant that he would have to answer for those poor souls when it was his own time to die, then he would do it with his head held high.

Because, though he was loath to admit it, he wasn't ready to go back to what they had before D'Artagnan had barreled into their lives-into Athos quite literally.

When the boy woke later in the afternoon, Porthos took his turn at helping D'Artagnan eat. There were no complaints, but Athos suspected the reason why was because he sat in the room with them. He suffered Porthos' endless tales along with D'Artagnan, even as minutes turned into hours. He hadn't denied Aramis his time and efforts, so he couldn't very well stop Porthos. But if he had to hear about that Parisian tavern wench, Marsella, one more bloody time…

He _and_ D'Artagnan breathed sighs of relief when Porthos left them. As evening came and D'Artagnan dozed, Athos prepared for yet another night of lost sleep. Although the nightmares came less when he was by the boy's side, he still couldn't find it in him to sleep. He was tired and exhausted, but it did not come for him. D'Artagnan seemed to have no trouble whatsoever and Athos found himself slightly jealous.

Just as he had laid down and closed his eyes, he heard rustling from the boy's bed. He looked over and saw D'Artagnan tossing his head to the side and mumbling. Athos would have ignored it and chalked it up to a passing dream had he not heard him moan and speak again, this time more clearly. "'m sorry-sorry!"

Athos tossed his blanket aside and crossed to sit on the edge of the boy's bed in two strides. He grabbed hold of D'Artagnan's arm and went to speak in his ear to wake him. But under that one touch the boy snapped awake with a gasp, latching onto Athos' arm with a strength he hadn't seen since the fever broke. D'Artagnan looked around the room and at him in confusion, like he'd forgotten where he was and how he'd gotten there.

"You were dreaming," Athos prompted.

Recognition came back to the boy but he was silent, finding the crackling fire more interesting than who was sitting right next to him. It irked Athos a little, but he allowed the boy some time to collect himself. When nearly fifteen minutes passed though, Athos' patience was worn out.

"It was nothing," D'Artagnan interrupted. "Just a dream."

Athos narrowed his eyes but D'Artagnan met them head on. "Nothing?"

"You look terrible," the boy rasped with a soft smile. "You should get some sleep, Athos."

"Sleep," Athos scoffed. "You're the one recovering from your own stupidity. If anyone needs it more than this whole camp it's you."

"Perhaps," the boy replied. "But if you're looking for an apology, you won't get it."

Anger flared in him when D'Artagnan said those bold words. "What you did was foolish. Would you deny that to me?"

"Would you call every man in our camp the same?"

Athos pursed his lips together and pointed a finger in D'Artagnan's face in warning. "Don't get smart with me, boy. I have no patience for needless and selfish ideals of heroism."

"It's what we do-" D'Artagnan started to say, knocking Athos' hand aside.

"No, it's what _you_ do and it nearly got you killed!"

D'Artagnan sighed and leaned back into a more comfortable position. "Can you tell me that you wouldn't have done the same for Aramis or Porthos?"

Athos held his tongue, knowing the truth of the answer but he refused to give in and cede the point.

"Then I do not regret what I did for you in the very least," D'Artagnan continued, stronger but with telling cracks in his voice. "If I have to suffer this in place of a lifetime without any of you in it then I will make the same choice as I did again and again. Perhaps that makes me a selfish person, and if that's true then I will own it. I am far from perfect, and for that reason I'm glad to be so."

_This_ was not how Athos had worked this conversation out in his head. Not at all. It wasn't that D'Artagnan's words weren't truthful, but the boy had driven them to a place Athos had been hell-bent on avoiding from the start. _Damn him. _And now, with his curiosity set loose, he couldn't help but ask the one question that had burned itself into his mind the moment he heard that gunshot and laid eyes on all of that blood.

"What could you possibly see in me that's worth saving," he asked, quiet and unassuming.

"Being a Count doesn't make a man great," D'Artagnan answered, equally quiet and even more unsettling. "And you're living proof of it."

Athos shook his head and wanted to bite his tongue, but it was already gone from his sight. "Men like me aren't without their flaws, D'Artagnan." _Don't make me into something I'm not. I'm not perfect and I know I can never be, no matter how much I may want to for your sake. _

The boy smiled before finally letting his eyes close and surrendering his want to stay awake. "Great men are nothing without them, Athos."

Warmth burst in his chest when he heard those words. It was such a shock that his immediate thoughts were those of escape, of running, disbelief, and dismissal. It had been so long since he felt it that he couldn't place it at first. Part of him didn't want to, and the other part grasped at it like a drowning man at sea. His hands shook again and he hurriedly balled them into fists and crossed his arms in front of himself to hide them.

For once, he was happy the boy was asleep.


	7. Chapter 7

_**Warnings:**_** The last section begins in italics and may be a little disturbing or shocking. **

**Chapter Seven – Out of the Crucible (Pt. 2)**

For the hundredth time that day Aramis smacked D'Artagnan's hand away, without looking and with his nose still in his book. "Don't scratch," Aramis repeated calmly.

"But it's itchy," D'Artagnan exclaimed.

"We've been over this. Do you want to give yourself another infection?"

"No-"

"Then _don't_ scratch."

"This is bloody torture," D'Artagnan seethed, digging his hands into the blankets covering him.

"Good," Athos snarked from the other corner where he was cleaning his sword. "Maybe after this you'll learn not to jump in front of bullets anymore."

D'Artagnan returned his glare with equal fire, and maybe a little bit of a growl before he thumped his head back onto the sad pillow cushioning his head. The sensation truly was maddening, and what made it worse was that there was nothing around that could remedy it. He bit his tongue over a lot of things over the past week or so since he woke, but this was the last straw. And things didn't get any better when the physician came in moments later with news about his condition.

"You, young man," the physician addressed. "Are looking at weeks of bed rest-"

D'Artagnan head shot straight up from the pillows in surprise. He tried to ignore the sudden burst of pain in his chest, but couldn't hide the wince. "Weeks?!"

"And at least a month and a half of recovery until I believe you will be fit to return to duty."

"Thank God for that," Aramis muttered to himself.

"This is ridiculous," D'Artagnan persisted. "What am I supposed to do? Lie here like some invalid when I'm perfectly capable of holding a musket?"

"No," Treville interrupted, entering with his personal attendant and a happy Porthos trailing behind. "All four of you officially have a month's reprieve. We've just replenished our ranks and I'm sending the lot of you home tomorrow for some rest before I recall you back. If and only if a physician deems you fit for duty, D'Artagnan, you may return with your friends at that time. If not then you _will_ stay in Paris until you are well. Am I understood?"

"Yes, monsieur," D'Artagnan replied, lying back in defeat. He knew an order when he heard one, but that didn't mean he had to like it.

The thought of going back to Paris was a bittersweet one. On one hand it was something of a second home-at least that's what it was after spending so much time in the misery of a harsh winter in La Rochelle-and on the other hand it was a reminder of all the times he spent wondering what and where his place was with his new friends. It was clear that things had changed since then, but had they really changed all that much? He couldn't be entirely sure. A part of him said yes, but another part still hesitated at the thought. Athos, Porthos, and Aramis had been taking turns staying with him. They never left him alone, not for a moment if it could helped. And while D'Artagnan was touched at the care, which spoke to how bad things had truly been when he was under, it was starting to drive him mad.

It was why he took advantage of Aramis and Porthos being called away later in the day to help the regiment pack for their trip home in the morning. Athos wanted to wait for either one to come back before going out to fetch their supper, but D'Artagnan urged him to go out since he was starving. It was a bit of a half-truth, for he wasn't truly starving, but he would be the longer they chose to wait for Aramis or Porthos to return. It was with a frown, a lot of reluctance, and repeated promises on Athos part that he wouldn't be long and that D'Artagnan was not to even think about doing something foolish in his absence.

"This is me you're talking about, Athos," D'Artagnan joked, unable to resist.

"Of that I am well aware," Athos warned. "_I repeat,_ do not do anything stupid nor even think of doing something stupid until I return to give you the only answer either will merit."

"And what answer would that be?-"

"A resounding no. Am I clear, boy?"

D'Artagnan laid back and folded his hands on top of the thin bed covers. "Very, Athos. Go on. I wouldn't be able to get too far in your absence anyway."

Athos glared at him before he finally left the room. Once the coast was clear, D'Artagnan breathed a sigh of relief. Finally! He was alone for the first time since before he'd been shot. His hand played with the hem of his shirt before he worked up the nerve to draw it aside and peer at the mess below that and the fresh bandages. He hadn't gotten a good look at it, and in truth hadn't wanted one until now.

When he pulled the bandages away he saw what everyone had been cringing about, and he couldn't blame them. The skin was a healthy pink now, but just the thought of it being an angry red and filled with pus had him shivering in disgust and a little bit of fear. He couldn't remember everything, only bits and pieces. He remembered a great deal of pain. He remembered feeling cold. He heard people talking to him, not what they said but the sound of talking and words blending together as one incoherent sound. The inescapable smell of blood. It was everywhere, when he was awake, when he supposed he was dreaming no matter what level of consciousness he was in he couldn't escape that awful smell. Sometimes he thought it was his own. Other times he knew it wasn't his.

"Tried to visit you earlier," Marc said from the doorway. "But your bodyguards don't change shift too often."

D'Artagnan smiled, sighing inwardly at his short reprieve, and welcomed his friend over. "Sorry about that. Come in! I'm glad to see a different face."

Marc sat down in the chair next to his bed, pushing his curly brown locks out of his pale face. "I can imagine," he said, grimacing once he caught sight of D'Artagnan's wound. "That doesn't look too nice."

"Compared to what it was days ago you'd be surprised."

Marc smiled tightly. "We heard you'll be leaving soon. You'll be missed here."

"Thank you, Marc," he replied, sitting up a little straighter once he replaced the bandages again. "But I think I'll miss you all more."

Marc smirked. "Sure you will, Gascon. How long are you out for?"

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes. "A month…or longer."

"Well, let's hope for one month for the sanity of your friends," Marc said, fidgeting with his fingers. "Listen, none of us think badly of you because of Vincent and Jacques. I know it weighs on you so don't deny it. It wouldn't make them happy to know you were bearing guilt over it. I can only speak for myself but I'm just happy it wasn't you. You're too good of a friend to lose, D'Artagnan."

A big lump formed in his throat. "So are you, Marc. I just wish-"

"Don't. You heard what I said."

"It doesn't make it any easier," he argued.

"I know, but time will if you let it. We've all lost someone, if not on this field then on another one. It never gets old, not even with the older officers."

Ajax interrupted them by meowing and pawing at Marc's legs. Marc laughed as he picked the kitten up and scratched him behind the ears. Ajax purred. "There's the little runt! We wondered where he wandered off to."

D'Artagnan frowned. "He hasn't left since I've been here I think."

"That makes sense. Vincent would want you to have him anyway."

"…are you sure?"

Marc nodded. "After all the trouble you two went through to keep him a secret? I would think so. Besides, I think he could do with a change of scenery. What do you think?"

D'Artagnan nodded in agreement. The battlefield was no place for such a little thing like Ajax, and Vincent and he had often talked of smuggling the kitten back to Paris when they went on leave. The only trouble was neither of them had worked out how to keep him on a soldier's salary, the long hours of guard duty, and when they would have to return to the field for months at a time. Planchet came to mind, but D'Artagnan wondered if the servant had enough patience for the kitten after dealing with his four masters in one day. D'Artagnan had been hoping Vincent would find someone to care for the kitten, but that clearly wasn't an option anymore.

With Marc's encouragement, however, he decided the best course of action would be to at least take him back to Paris in the mean time and figure something out later. They conspired late into the evening until Athos returned with their supper. Ajax leapt out of Marc's hands and meowed at Athos the second he smelled the meat. Marc leaned down, lightly embraced D'Artagnan, and squeezed his shoulder before he left. On his way out the door he winked when Athos wasn't looking, and D'Artagnan couldn't help but smile in reply.

Athos handed him a bowl of chicken soup that had more meat in it than broth, but D'Artagnan didn't say anything. He was just happy Athos was finally letting him eat on his own. Ajax stopped meowing and just sat at Athos' feet imploringly staring up at him. Athos ignored it for the first few minutes into their meal but eventually sighed and picked out a big piece of white meat and handed it down to the little creature. Ajax all but jumped on his hand to take his first bite and D'Artagnan had to hide his smile behind his bowl when Athos glanced up at him.

"Don't get any funny ideas about keeping him," Athos warned.

"Wouldn't dream of it," D'Artagnan innocently replied.

While Ajax was happily tearing away at his dinner on the floor, D'Artagnan felt eyes on him again, but when he looked up Athos looked away.

"Did Aramis and Porthos go hunting today," D'Artagnan asked.

In reply, Athos held up the bowl to confirm D'Artagnan's assumption behind the question. "We'll have better cooked food once we return home."

"I'll feel much better when we get back…to Paris, too," he stumbled. He felt his face flush but he bit the inside of his lip and stared down at what was left of his meal. Was it too much to hope that Athos hadn't noticed that stupid slip of tongue?

Athos let go of his spoon in the tin bowl with a soft clink. "D'Artagnan."

The young man sighed and barely restrained himself from shaking his head at himself. But when he looked up all further thoughts of berating himself went out the door. To his recollection, Athos had never looked at him the way he was right now. It was…softer than what D'Artagnan had learned was normal for the man. It was perplexing and more than a little startling for certain, but not more than what came out of the man's mouth next. "It's your home too, I hope?"

"I…would like it to be," he ventured, completely honest and bare for rejection.

But there was none. "Then it is," Athos said, returning to his unfinished supper. "For as long as you want it."

D'Artagnan was struck with how simple a matter it was. Months ago he wouldn't have dared be so open and bold with Athos, for all he had when he had first met the man was impatience and something short of derision. Yes, he'd been young and more foolish back then. He still was young and foolish in Athos' eyes. But there was a big part of him that couldn't help it. Something about Athos made him act brave and stupid, made him want to draw the man out a little bit and…help him.

It struck him as odd, that Athos would need helping somehow, but his gut kept pulling him there because of a sharp familiarity. He'd had a friend who kept things to himself before, to his own ruin. And if D'Artagnan was honest it frightened him that there could be the mere possibility it could happen again.

That kind of pain couldn't be erased.

That kind of pain couldn't be forgotten.

And years later it still hurt as much as it did the day he first received it.

* * *

"Jacques…"

Athos woke, not sure at first that he heard it.

"Vincent…"

And then he heard it again.

"-Vincent," D'Artagnan was shouting. "-Vincent!"

Athos staggered to his feet, cursing the blankets that were wrapped around his legs, and crossed to the boy's bedside. He tried calling D'Artagnan's name and grabbing his arm or shoulder like he did the last time, expecting the boy to wake but he didn't. Athos didn't want to shake the boy and cause him more pain from the wound, but it appeared as if he had no other choice. So he did. When the boy woke this time it was not sudden, but slow, as if he were still afraid he was dreaming. And even when he was finally fully awake Athos got the distinct impression that the boy wished he was still sleeping. D'Artagnan didn't look at him and stared at the ceiling with a stony face. Athos would have said something but the abundance of unshed tears banished them from his mind. When the first few fell, and they were big ones, neither said a word.

But they kept coming. He tried covering his face, then he switched to angrily scrubbing them away but Athos caught his hands and tried to make him stop. The boy struggled as best he could, but didn't have the strength he used to. Instead he did the only thing he had the power left to do, and that was to turn his head away from Athos to hide it in the pillows. Only Athos didn't let him. He hauled the boy up by force, turned his head into his own shoulder, and kept it there with a firm but gentle hand.

D'Artagnan tried to push away but Athos kept him still and didn't say a single word, not even when the muffled sobs started coming out. "It's my fault-It's my fault," he repeated.

Athos just held him tighter against him. "No, it's not."

It was a long time in which that monotonous litany continued between them. And each time Athos gave the same answer as before because he could think of nothing else to stop that unseen pain. It was only when D'Artagnan's agonized words finally changed that Athos' patience snapped.

"I shouldn't be here," the boy kept saying. "I shouldn't be here. It's not right-"

Athos grabbed him by the chin and forced D'Artagnan to look him in the eyes. "_Stop it!_"

"They're not here-"

"No, but you are-and it's going to stay that way for a long time or God as my witness you'll know more about me than you _ever_ wanted to know. Do we understand one another?"

D'Artagnan paused but eventually nodded and let Athos hold him again, more gentle than before. He rested his head on top of the boy's and whispered reassurances in his ear. "They'll fade in time."

"What if I don't want them to?"

"Then you'll go mad before we can get you on your feet again."

"Mad," D'Artagnan whispered, trembling worse than before. "What if I already am?"

"Madness isn't a question when it comes. It disguises itself as truth. If you question it then it's not real, only a shadow in the distance."

"What if it's closer than you think-than what I think?"

"Let them go, D'Artagnan." The boy tensed up like a rock, but he would say it however many times he needed to until he decided to listen to reason. "Let the dead have their peace. Don't keep them here."

D'Artagnan didn't say another word that night, and predictably fell asleep in Athos' arms. The older musketeer didn't mind because to finally feel the boy breathing against him with sure breaths of sleep, not ragged gasps for life, was a comfort. Maybe it was the constant aching in his back from that sorry mattress of his own that made him do it, but when he laid D'Artagnan down he turned on his side and squeezed onto the small bed next to him. The boy turned his head towards him even though he couldn't rest on his side just yet, but Athos huffed all the same as he pulled the blanket up over them both.

Strangely, that night he slept better than he had in weeks.

The next day Porthos came to help D'Artagnan dress before dawn. Complaints were on the boy's lips, layer after layer that was forced upon him, but he stayed silent and endured it when Athos cleared his throat from the doorway. With the wagon secured for their trip home there was nothing left to do but wait until they were finished. And when they were D'Artagnan looked worn out again, but leave it to the boy to not leave well enough alone and make things easy on them all.

"Just to the doorway," D'Artagnan pleaded. "Please?"

Athos frowned. "Absolutely not-we do not have time for-"

"Can you even stand," Aramis asked.

"I'm sitting up and I feel fine," D'Artagnan said. "I've been sitting and lying down all week and longer than that when I was sick. All I want is just to walk to the door if I can."

"_If _you can," Athos asked.

D'Artagnan glared at him and willed the man to understand. Surprisingly, Athos sighed and wordlessly extended his hand to help him up. Truth be told he was slightly curious himself to see how D'Artagnan would fare. Aramis grabbed D'Artagnan's other arm and together they hauled the boy to his feet. D'Artagnan cringed and bit back a moan, but did manage to stay on his feet, for all of two seconds before his eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted.

Aramis was just as quick to react as Athos when D'Artagnan started to fall, but Athos was quicker to sweep the boy up into his arms. "Little idiot," he groused.

He let Porthos cover D'Artagnan with a blanket before he led them down the hall to the waiting company at the gates. Along the way the boy regained consciousness and had the nerve to start complaining about the indecency of being carried. Athos didn't even look down at him when he spoke. "What part of dodging death by a thin margin _three times_ still doesn't get through that thick skull of yours?"

"Three," D'Artagnan asked, still trying to catch his breath.

"Bullet. Blood Loss. Infection," Athos ground out. "The least you can do is keep your mouth shut and make this easier on m-us!"

The cold wind was just as unforgiving as ever and he couldn't help but shiver when a gust made its way down his neck. Porthos took charge of D'Artagnan while Athos climbed into the wagon and stowed a pistol next to him. Then Porthos handed D'Artagnan back to Athos and got them both settled and covered under several blankets for the long trip home. It would be a cold one, but with the boy's back to his chest and the blankets covering them both, he doubted either of them would want for warmth. The wagon jerked to a start and Athos fought against gravity to keep them both steady. The roads wouldn't likely be as smooth a ride as he had hoped for, but he just hoped they wouldn't slide off the road if they encountered any ice.

When the fort disappeared from sight in the distance, and they hadn't hit too many more bumps, Athos leaned back against the wooden boards of the wagon and closed his eyes in hopes for some small snatches of rest. Seconds later he jerked awake at the sensation of something moving against his backside. He was loathe to disturb the tucked blankets around them both that kept the cold at bay, but in the end he didn't have to. The culprit wedged his way out and meowed at them both as he clawed his way up.

"Damn little stowaway," Athos cursed.

D'Artagnan smiled. "You can hardly blame him. He's got no one else but us now. Besides, I'm sure Planchet wouldn't mind him keeping the mice away. And he's already here. You can't just toss him out in the snow to freeze."

Athos frowned, annoyed that his earlier warning had gone unheeded. How the boy had managed it, Athos had no idea. But the more he thought on it, and though the idea of the little runt becoming the very definition of a little snowball was enticing-

"Athos," D'Artagnan warned.

-He couldn't say no to the boy, not after everything that had happened, so Athos sighed and gave up. "He'd best live up to his namesake, then."

Ajax yawned and climbed up to D'Artagnan's shoulder where he found a comfortable position to perch and look out the wagon while he dozed, purring warmth and security.

* * *

The ride was a silent affair as the day wore on, even when D'Artagnan could plainly see Aramis and Porthos riding horseback alongside them. His own horse and Athos' were tethered to the back of the wagon and trotted along at a leisurely pace. He looked around at the other sleeping men lying in the wagon with them either sick with fever or recovering from sword or bullet injuries themselves. It hadn't dawned on him until that moment just how lucky he had been. There was only another wagon of sick and injured returning to Paris and that had been all of the sick and injured from that surprise attack.

Many more, he had later learned, had perished and were buried where they were found out in the woods. Though D'Artagnan understood the necessity of it, he still wished those men and even Vincent and Jacque didn't have to be laid to rest so far from home. Had he perished instead of them, he didn't think his soul could ever find peace being so far from home either. He just prayed it wouldn't be that way for either of his friends. And thinking on them brought him back to himself. Two wagons of sick and injured, barely five or six assigned to each one, and no one with a chest wound besides himself. The others had broken limbs, lacerations, and head wounds, all trivial compared to his. No one even came to mind he had come across who had lived with the kind of injury D'Artagnan wore. Miracles like that just didn't happen, or at the very least, not often enough.

Not to his memory.

Not to Monsieur de Treville's, as the captain had told him.

Certainly not to his father's-

Oh Lord…

D'Artagnan gasped.

How was he going to explain this to his parents?

"What's wrong? Are you cold?"

D'Artagnan glanced back at Athos. "No…Athos, you need to promise me something. It's important."

"If it is within my power and I don't deem it stupid."

"It's not for me. Whatever you do, whatever pains you have to suffer for it…_Don't _tell my parents about this!"

"That's a promise I think we can easily make," Athos replied, laying back again.

D'Artagnan frowned, expecting more of an argument. "Why is that?"

"Because," Porthos answered, bending his head down to be seen. "None of us would want to be in the same room as your father if the stories we've heard of his exploits from Monsieur de Treville are true."

"If we're lucky," Aramis said, turning backwards in his seat. "He'll only have eyes for the captain if it ever comes to light."

"Either way," D'Artagnan said with a smirk. "Better not to risk it."

"Agreed," Porthos said. "But that's dependent on your recovery, lad. You'll have to do your part, else all our necks will lie in wait."

"Do us all a favor and a mercy, D'Artagnan," Aramis said. "Rest."

D'Artagnan sighed and leaned back against Athos again. "It's all I ever do these days."

Ajax sneezed.

"Oh, not you too," D'Artagnan groaned.

"Will you both be quiet before I toss you out on your backsides in the snow," Athos droned.

"You wouldn't," D'Artagnan scoffed.

"The same can't be said of your furry little friend. Now, hush."

"You promised!"

"I did, but I have also been known to break them when called to do so. Which would you rather bear witness of?"

Later that evening, when they were all housed in a warm bedroom at a comfortable inn and had a warm meal and good wine in their stomachs, D'Artagnan turned to Athos in the dark and whispered to him, knowing he wasn't asleep. "I didn't do it for honor or bravery. I trust you know the real reason why?"

Athos opened his eyes and spared a glance at Aramis and Porthos both in the midst of an unconscious snoring competition. "Nevertheless. What good are we to each other dead? Considering all the grief you put m-_us through_ I think you owe something in return."

"Like what?"

"A promise, no matter the situation, the circumstances, or the enemy. If I think that head of yours is going to make you run headlong into a fool's venture then when I say you'll stay put and not risk your damned neck."

D'Artagnan deadpanned. "You're joking."

Athos simply stared back, dead serious. "I don't joke."

"W-Then you're not serious-?"

"This is not a discussion, boy-"

"I can't control my own instincts when they're telling me to-

"To what," Athos hissed. "Pull stupid life-threatening stunts that no normal man could possibly live through, even with blessings from God himself?! You're too damned lucky for your own damned good! You could have died!"

"Well, I didn't," D'Artagnan shot back. "I'm here, aren't I? I'm tired of everyone treating me like-…I lived. And that's the end of it. I know I'm far from normal, but I will be in time, even if I'm not a patient person."

Athos was silent for a while before he spoke again. "I want your word, boy."

D'Artagnan growled. "If that's what you want then you're not getting it without not a two-way bargain. If I think you're about to do something stupid then I reserve the right to call you on the same. It's only fair."

"Who said anything about being fair?"

"I did. Just now. And I won't agree to it otherwise."

"You…are in_ no_ position to bargain," Athos hissed, leaning forward in the dark. "Let alone add clauses to a promise that has nothing to do with-"

"Athos," was all D'Artagnan said with a straight face.

The older man sighed and turned his back, pulling the blanket higher up on his shoulder. "…Fine."

"We have an agreement, then?"

"Yes, you stupid boy, that we do. And wipe that smirk off your face," Athos threatened.

"How can you tell I am?"

"I can hear it. So get rid of it."

"Or what?"

"Or else."

D'Artagnan tried his best, but couldn't manage it in the end, even when he bid Athos a soft "Good night."

* * *

_Late into the night he passed down the dark and dank corridor he knew so well. Firelight from the other rooms of the fort danced across the hallway in varying degrees of misleading brightness and warmth. He was silent as a cat, like a ghost, stepping with an unearthly care, reluctant to disturb the sick, the dying, and the dead. But every room was empty. When he reached the room at the end of the hall he looked in and it was dimmer than the rest. _

_He gripped the handle of a dagger behind his back. _

_And he cautiously approached._

_One foot in front of the other. _

_Something wasn't supposed to be there. _

_Someone. _

_Someone with his back to him by the fire. _

_Athos circled around…_

_And stopped as shock and fear paralyzed every inch of his body. _

_The boy sat there with a gaping hole in his chest. _

_White with death. _

_Abandoned-Unseeing-Gaunt with the early stages of decay-_

Athos woke with his heart in his throat and the sore feeling of that very same organ threatening to break through his chest. Hastily, he grabbed the empty chamber pot next to his bed and spent the next ten minutes trying not to vomit. When he could take a breath without feeling nausea threatening to take him over he braced his hands on his knees and eyed his boots and cloak near the window, debating with himself on whether to give in. It should have shocked him how simple the decision was, but the aftereffects from the dream were still fresh. And he was still shaking with nervous energy that needed to be set loose.

On his way out, hat in hand and sword strapped to his side, he paused at D'Artagnan's door. On impulse he pushed the door in and peeked in the dark room, easily spying the still figure sprawled on the bed with covers kicked off at the bottom edge. Though D'Artagnan's back was mostly facing the doorway, Athos could still see that his rhythmic peaceful slumber went undisturbed. He fell against the doorway and sighed, noting that most of that unruly dark hair obscured those features he wanted to see, just to prove to his morbid imagination that his dreams were false.

It was enough.

It was only a dream.

So he left before his feet could refuse him, thinking one thought over and over the farther from home he walked.

_Damn that boy._

* * *

**A/N: Little changes here and there, but that's the new version of Lionheart for you. There will also be a small filler or one-shot bridging Lionheart and True Faith. Not sure when it will come about or what the title will be, but it's a comin'. Will involve Ajax and a LOT of mother-henning by everyone. And now I can thankfully put some more work into getting True Faith, Lionheart's sequel, reposted and more importantly finished. Thank you to those who read and reviewed, past and present. I hope it's just as good as before, if not better. **


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